


A Duty of Care

by Mottlemoth



Series: Dr Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft Holmes, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Greg's Wife is Not Good, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Childhoods, Loss of Pregnancy/Miscarriage Themes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rampant Feelings, Sex, Sex Dreams, Sexuality Crisis, Texting, Therapist/Patient, Touch-Starved, Vulnerable Greg, domestic abuse, sex therapy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: With their short-lived marriage already on the rocks, Greg and Helen Lestrade decide to see a sex therapist. Dr Mycroft Holmes is an expert in his field, a consummate professional and more than happy to help—but the couple's situation is far more complex than first appears. Helen has no interest in giving up her latest lover; Greg has sworn to end the marriage if she ever cheats again.Will Mycroft be able to restore wedded bliss to Mr and Mrs Lestrade? Or will his involvement only complicate things further?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Dr Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697182
Comments: 1045
Kudos: 1233
Collections: Sherlock (BBC)





	1. New Clients

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked very nicely by some _very_ lovely people to give this WIP a proper home on AO3, and I agreed that it's long overdue.
> 
> Before you dive in, please take a peek at the following warnings.
> 
> \- This story is the first in a trilogy. Things will _not_ be fully resolved by the end of this work, nor the next one, but they will by the end of the series. If you don't read WIPs on principle, then I recommend you wait until the whole series is complete.
> 
> \- This story isn't a documentary on sex therapy and how it all works. I've done my best to research from the outside, but ultimately we're here to have fun. _"An actual therapist wouldn't actually recommend x/y/z, they'd just refer to another therapist"_ will be politely ignored because that would make a super short and super boring story.
> 
> \- Over the course of the series, an intimate sexual relationship develops between a therapist and his unhappily married patient. If you can't tolerate a love story with a happy ending coming out of those circumstances, give that back button a tap for me now.
> 
> \- It's been ages since I let the boys get really deep and messy and real. I'm not going to insist they keep this breezy or fluffy, though I do promise (as always) there will be a happy ending. <3
> 
> **\- I do not allow translations. If you find this story posted to any other site but AO3, please let me know.**
> 
> So. With those quick notices aside...

**Thursday 14th November**

_ "Dr Holmes?" _

Mycroft returned his spectacles to the end of his nose, returned the cleaning cloth to its case and pressed the intercom button at the corner of his desk. "Yes?"

_ "Your new clients are here for your one o'clock." _

A little early, Mycroft noted with a glance at his clock. It was a sign of willingness, and a very good one. All clients were willing on some level, of course—otherwise they simply wouldn't be here—but with couples in particular, an early arrival was an auspicious beginning. 

Depending upon the issue, he might even see Mr and Mrs Lestrade quite contented by the end of the session.

"Thank you, Anthea," he told the intercom. "I'll just be one moment. Would you kindly ask them to fill out the usual questionnaires?"

_ "Of course." _

The intercom clicked off. 

Mycroft rose from his desk, brushed down his waistcoat and quietly picked up his kettle, then carried it along the hallway to the kitchen to be filled. He shared the practice on York Street with four other specialists. Their office doors were all currently closed, busy with clients. The run-up to Christmas was invariably a busy time, as the dark half of the year drove families indoors to spend more time with one another. All those issues forgotten during the long and sunlit days of summer came once more to the fore. 

Mycroft's appointments tended to be more sparse, though his clients usually paid more for his specialism. Fewer appointments permitted longer sessions. It allowed him to work more intensively with each client, come to a more thorough understanding of their needs, and give them the space they needed in which to grow.

Though there were many areas of practice that he'd considered moving into, he was pleased with the choice that he'd made.

It was an unusual career, perhaps. His mother told people he was a marriage counsellor, which he supposed was at least partly correct. His younger brother told people he was a professional pervert. Mycroft in turn told Sherlock that his door was always open, whenever he felt ready to deal with all the latent paraphilias and deviant inclinations that he quite clearly harboured in abundance.

Not that deviant inclinations cropped up all that often, of course.

Far more frequently, Mycroft's days ran much as this one had.

He'd seen Mrs Armitage at nine. Her husband's predilection for pornography was still making her miserable. Sadly, until the man agreed to come and speak to Mycroft himself, there was little to be done. All Mycroft could do was support the poor woman and try to bolster her wounded self-worth. Mrs Armitage was far from the only client of her kind on Mycroft's files, and nor was her husband the first man to fear that accompanying her to a session would see him chastised like a naughty school boy. In truth Mycroft would be delighted to reassure the blessed idiot. Enjoyment of pornography was entirely healthy. The only problem was when one  _ relied  _ on it, or hurt one's partner by giving her the impression she was deeply lacking in comparison.

Unfortunately, until the happy day arrived that Mr Armitage presented himself before Mycroft's desk, it was simply a case of comforting his wife, reassuring her, and hoping.

At ten o'clock Mycroft had seen Rebecca, an attractive and intelligent young lawyer, currently in recovery from breast cancer. Supporting a young woman barely into her thirties through such an ordeal had been difficult for him at times. On occasion after her sessions, he'd felt the need to take himself down the corridor to a colleague. It was common practice in therapy, a professional support that was gladly given and gratefully received.

Rebecca was progressing beautifully; Mycroft's recent appointments with her had been rather humbling. Her strength and sense of self were quite remarkable in a young woman of her age. He hoped very much to receive updates from her after their sessions had concluded.

Eleven o'clock had swept into Mycroft's office the Reynolds. They were working very nicely through the problem that Mycroft dealt with more often than he consumed hot meals: Mr Reynold reaching orgasm too soon, Mrs Reynold never having the pleasure. Resentment had set in some time ago, stewed away nicely for several years, and help had now finally been sought. Mrs Reynold's actual ability to orgasm had been solved within two sessions. Mycroft had assured her that a forty-one-year-old woman was perfectly within her rights to some private time and self-care, offered her a number of pamphlets to peruse at her leisure, and let a candlelit Tuesday night bubblebath do the rest.

Mr Reynold worked in construction. He had been deeply unsettled to find himself in the presence of a  _ male  _ sex therapist, and was still struggling with some issues of inadequacy. He'd been very reluctant to open up to his wife so far. However, today's session had seen the first few tears from him. It was an excellent sign; a tender hug had then followed before Mycroft's desk. Mycroft almost wondered if the sensate focus exercises he'd assigned them as homework would lead to some early success. Next week's session would tell. Either way, the Reynolds were on course to be smiling broadly across his desk at him before the year was out.

At noon, there came a new client: a young man in his early twenties, just finding his way in the world. The country's ricketty sex education curriculum had failed him, as it had so many others, and had left him feeling anxious over a number of things. The questions were stilted at first; they soon flowed in a rush of long-held fear and fascination. Was  _ this  _ normal? Were  _ those  _ thoughts normal? What about  _ these  _ thoughts—and was it alright that on some level they were  _ welcome  _ thoughts? But did having the thoughts mean  _ this  _ thing—and if it  _ did  _ mean that, was that  _ also normal? _

In a single session, Mycroft relieved him of nearly a decade of worry. The young man left, delighted, with Mycroft's email address and a warm invitation to make use of it if he had any questions in future.

And now, just after lunch, more new clients: Mr and Mrs Lestrade. 

As usual with those who were new, Mycroft knew very little about them. His colleagues at the practice, when first contacted by a prospective client, could quite reasonably ask the general nature of the problem over the telephone—ascertain a very loose reason for wishing to speak to a therapist. For Mycroft's clients, such an enquiry was unlikely to yield a forthcoming answer.

"I'm just having some trouble," was the usual reason that was offered—or alternately,  _ "We're _ just having some trouble."

Mr and Mrs Lestrade, then, were  _ having some trouble. _

It was enough for Mycroft. A fuller understanding of the problem would now be sought during their first session—though, Mycroft noted, as he returned to his office with the kettle, and took a brief look through their details as taken by reception, they'd been married only eleven months. It seemed unusual. Honeymoon glow was far from a myth. The first few years of marriage were usually so suffused with togetherness and romance that any problems took a while to be identified as problems. Indeed, couples were more likely to spend years or even decades quietly simmering over an issue before seeking professional help—be it from a specialist like Mycroft, or more tragically from a divorce lawyer.

Eleven months was a short span of time to have brought Mr and Mrs Lestrade before the desk of a sex therapist.

Perhaps, Mycroft thought, as the kettle boiled, Mr and Mrs Lestrade were those dream clients that every practitioner of his trade longed for: communicative, honest and open, who had spotted a small discrepancy between them and made the wholly sensible decision to reach for professional guidance. Such clients were few and far between, but it was always very gratifying to encounter them. 

After a few more minutes, Mycroft calmly pressed the button for the intercom.

"Anthea?" he said.

There came a click.  _ "Yes, Dr Holmes?" _

"Would you kindly show Mr and Mrs Lestrade through to my office, please?"

_ "Of course. Would you care for coffee at all?" _

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek.

He liked Anthea. She was one of three receptionists currently with them, and by far the most competent. She and he had established the beverage code some time ago. It gave him a covert glimpse outside of his office walls, into the waiting room that surrounded her desk. A couple's behaviour in the minutes leading up to their first appointment was always rather telling.

If Anthea offered Mycroft tea, it meant that his new clients had been talking while they waited. In Anthea's opinion — and she was almost always correct — they seemed broadly comfortable together. There was a sense of shared purpose, and their relationship seemed to be based upon a foundation of togetherness.

If Anthea offered him coffee…

_ After eleven months of marriage,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ Oh dear. _

"No thank you, Anthea," he said. "Have they had time to complete their questionnaires?"

_ "Yes, all finished." _

"Excellent," said Mycroft. "Do send them through."


	2. Mr and Mrs Lestrade

From the moment that Greg and Helen Lestrade entered his office, Mycroft began a silent assessment of the health of their marriage.

Mr Lestrade held the door for his wife. As it opened, Mycroft caught the back half of his voice, reassuring her with some fondness as he said, "—just see how it goes, babe…"

She tutted at him as she crossed the threshold. Finding herself in the presence of a stranger, she cast a pained eye over Mycroft and readjusted her hold on the plaited leather strap of her handbag. 

She was an attractive woman—early forties, Mycroft guessed, but more likely to claim late thirties. Her make-up was applied with a sharp precision gained after many years of practice: feline eyes, a deep red lip, any hint of a skin blemish obliterated into nothing by concealer. Her cheekbones were high and augmented with a judicious under-shading of bronzer. Though her tan had been enhanced by a bottle for the winter, she was by no means pale underneath it. Naturally, Mycroft thought, her hair was likely to be a mid-brown—the sort of shade sometimes cruelly termed _mousy_ in childhood—but she'd chosen to swap it for honey-blonde with highlights. It was cut sleekly around her face, straight and shiny, and maintained with some pride. She dressed with style: a leather jacket in muted pink, a blouse which took no pains to conceal the lacy push-up bra beneath it, a patterned skirt and knee-high boots. Her wedding ring was noticeably dull compared to the rest of her jewellery. She had a fondness for gemstones, Mycroft spotted. Bright flashes of rich colour sparkled at her ears and her throat. The handbag, no doubt, had a prestigious name sewn somewhere into the lining.

She had not wanted to come.

Mycroft knew it from the moment she looked into his eyes: the slight sneer, the guarded glance, the touch of surprise that a man— _this_ man — was supposed to instill some kind of change in her life, to _correct_ her even... it was all plain to see. Mycroft was used to the look. He far more commonly received it from a husband, though.

It wasn't unknown in couples, of course— _unusual,_ perhaps, but not unheard of—for the husband to make the first push towards sex therapy. So often, it was an unhappy wife who began the process. Driven to despair, bewildered and distressed, women were far more likely to seek guidance from someone qualified. It was the same in almost all fields of medicine.

Not this time, it seemed.

Mycroft gave Mrs Lestrade a quiet and professional smile, then turned his attention to the husband who'd come here to rescue his marriage.

Mr Lestrade was quite startlingly good-looking, a few years older than his wife, but with a youth and an openness that seemed to warm his entire face. As soon as their gazes met, he had a smile for Mycroft, a big bright smile that matched his big bright eyes. They were the very deepest chocolate brown, puppyish and friendly. His grey hair was softly scruffy, touched with silver. He wore a leather jacket too, not new like hers but worn and well-loved, with a white shirt beneath and a pair of grey jeans. His wedding ring was the only jewellery he wore.

Mycroft found himself surprised.

He spent his days trying to persuade sullen and suspicious middle-aged men to express even the most basic of human emotions to their wives. Now here was someone handsome, friendly and frankly rather virile-looking, standing next to a wife who clearly had half a mind to run away.

Politely, Mycroft extended a hand to the man.

"Mr Lestrade?" he said.

There was a slight skip in Mr Lestrade's expression. It relaxed at once into a smile. "Yep," he said. "Greg. Dr Holmes, is it?"

"It is. Very good to meet you. And Mrs Lestrade?"

Mycroft offered a hand to her.

Mrs Lestrade shook it, saying nothing. Though she met his eyes, her grip was reluctant. He couldn't quite decide if it were nerves or annoyance. Some heady blend of the two, he thought, in a woman who probably believed any kind of therapy was a tremendous embarrassment. 

She would settle soon.

"My... wife's name is Helen," Mr Lestrade offered, and received a weary glance from his wife for his trouble. "Thanks for fitting us in. We appreciate your time."

"Not at all," Mycroft said, closing the door. He gestured to the two comfortable armchairs placed before his desk. "Please, do have a seat. Make yourselves at home." Clients relaxed more in armchairs, especially new clients. It made them feel like it was a chat, not therapy.

As they took a seat, Mrs Lestrade firmly ignored the attentive glances of her husband. She laid her bag protectively on her lap, stroked the tassels on the charm to lie flat, and faced straight forward with an expression of the deepest disinterest.

As he moved to the kettle behind his desk, Mycroft made a few early predictions of what he was about to hear.

 _Infertility?_ Most would have sought the help of Ananya, the very skilled family therapist two doors down from Mycroft, though he supposed it was a possibility. _Infidelity?_ Had Mr Lestrade been unfaithful perhaps, and was attempting now to make amends? But there was no guilt in the man's mannerisms, no nervousness, only a quiet concern for his unhappy wife. _Hoping to spice things up? After only eleven months?_

Supposing there was one way to find out, Mycroft decided to begin.

"Would either of you care for tea or coffee?" he asked, with a pleasant smile. 

New clients liked having a mug to hold. It gave them something to hide behind while they admitted to him how often they masturbated.

"No thank you," Mrs Lestrade said, tightly.

Her husband's lifted eyebrows had been about to preface a yes. Instead, he folded into a small smile. _Following her lead_ , Mycroft thought. _Trying to locate himself in the same opinion as her._ "Nah," he said. "We're alright, thanks."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, as he poured himself a cup of Earl Grey. It was unusual for new clients to reject a drink. Home comforts were often craved in this moment. "I have decaffeinated, if you'd rather."

"We're fine," Mrs Lestrade said to him, shortly.

Her husband let this be their joint answer.

 _Interesting._ Mycroft kept the thought from his face as he brought his Earl Grey over to his desk, took a seat, and gave them both a smile.

"Your first time at the practice, is it?" he said. It was the gentle way of asking, _any previous therapy?_

Mrs Lestrade cast her eyes sullenly to the side, not answering. Her husband took in her non-reaction for a moment, uneasy, then stepped in to speak for them both.

"Ah, yeah," he said. "First time. Just… hoping you could help us work through some stuff, I guess. Nothing major. Nothing, erm... too exciting."

He gave a small and nervous laugh, to which Mycroft responded with a smile. From the corner of his eye, he caught the slight shake of Mrs Lestrade's head, quite unable to believe she were being subjected to this lunacy.

A few things were falling into place.

"Well," Mycroft said, slipping through habit into a well-practiced welcome, "obviously there are many reasons that couples might decide to see a sex therapist. It's nothing unusual. Every relationship can use a little guidance from time to time. It's very normal to feel nervous, especially in this first session. But rest assured that anything we discuss will be in full and complete confidence. I'm very much here to help—and to help you both."

Mr Lestrade smiled, reassured. Mycroft watched some of the tension ease in his shoulders.

They both then glanced at Mrs Lestrade, who was surveying Mycroft's framed qualifications on the wall. Her eyes were rather dull. She felt humiliated to be here; she was unhappy.

There came a brief pause.

"Shall I start by taking your paperwork from you?" Mycroft asked, his tone light. He smiled and held out a hand for the questionnaires they'd completed while they were waiting. "Not the sort of forms you're used to, I imagine. Please don't worry. I have a very heavy-duty shredder."

Mr Lestrade grinned, handing the form over with a slight flush—embarrassed, but put at ease by the remark. Mrs Lestrade gave no reaction whatsoever. She handed Mycroft her intimate details with the same lack of emotion one would turn over a car insurance document.

"Reception should have asked you to complete these separately," Mycroft said. "Is that the case? It's useful for me to be able to compare your answers."

"Yep," said Greg. "No peeking."

Helen said nothing, inspecting the nail varnish on her thumb. She'd opted for pale pink. Based on the tiny touches of paint upon her cuticles, it was a very recent choice, perhaps even this morning. 

It seemed there might be some benefit in getting straight to the heart of the matter. Something was going unsaid, and it was ready to be voiced. Light friendliness was not working; gentle humour was not working; tea and coffee were not working. There was pain in the room, and Mycroft had a feeling it was rather close to the surface. It was good. It meant that it could be expressed, treated and healed, without excavating it first. Mr and Mrs Lestrade probably had no idea that their every hope could be only a few short weeks away.

"We'll take a look at your questionnaires in a moment, perhaps," Mycroft said. "For now—and do take a deep breath, if it helps—go ahead and tell me what you hope I can help you with."

There was a long pause.

It was a familiar pause. Mycroft had seen it thousands of times across this desk. Even the most viciously unhappy couples were always united in this moment, in these few seconds of silence, as they met eyes from their respective armchairs and tried to decide what should be said—who should begin the explanation, what was _truly_ the reason for them being here.

Greg and Helen Lestrade were no different.

He looked at her, his dark eyes gentle, expression touched with hope.

She looked at him like _he'd_ got them into this mess, and he could bloody well get them out of it. She even gave a slight sideways nod at Mycroft. _Go on,_ she told her husband in silence, her eyes hard. _Tell him. Tell him what the problem is._

At last, with what looked like a heavy heart, Greg Lestrade relented under the glare of his wife. He licked his lips a little, looked into Mycroft's eyes, and said,

"We, erm... we don't seem to be as close as we used to be. We don't seem to get to bed as much as we did before we got married. Helen's…" 

Her eyes flashed to him, sharp. They pinned him viciously into place, daring him to say another word. 

For a moment, Mycroft thought the man was about to lose his nerve—to swallow whatever he'd been about to say, and drop it—but something in Greg Lestrade's expression then steadied. He steeled himself and he said it, pushed on by hope of making things better.

"—maybe... not as interested in sex as she was. In me. And that's… erm, we wanna fix that."

 _"Do_ we?" his wife snapped.

Mycroft maintained a neutral expression, listening with no comment. 

Mr Lestrade flushed slightly, unsettled by the remark. "You said you'd come along with me, babe. You said you'd come and talk to someone." He hesitated. "For our marriage."

Helen cast her eyes sideways again, saying nothing. She eyed the psychiatric reference texts on Mycroft's bookshelf with contempt. The fingers of her right hand, resting on one knee, had picked up the twitch of the habitual smoker.

"Would you not agree with that, Mrs Lestrade?" Mycroft prompted her, gently. "Are you quite happy with your sex life?"

Out of sight of her husband's gaze, the strangest gleam passed over her eyes. It was a smug, cold, and rather unpretty expression. Mycroft spotted it at once, and wondered immediately what thought had caused it. A hand of suspicions naturally unfanned in his mind, some likely, some less likely; some easy to solve, some that would take a great deal of time.

Mrs Lestrade smothered her thoughts, raised her head, and with a sigh she looked Mycroft in the eye.

"Yes," she purred. "I am happy. Thank you. Do you even count as an actual doctor, can I ask? Or is it like homeopathy, buying your degree off the internet?"

Her husband shifted. "Babe," he protested in a mumble.

Mycroft simply smiled. Her sharpness was a defense mechanism. She was afraid of something, and Mycroft was the harbinger of her fear. It was natural for her to try shifting the focus in the conversation elsewhere, anywhere apart from on her.

Possibilities were slowly whittling down towards one.

"My doctorate is in Clinical Psychology," he told her, in reassuring tones. "I studied in Edinburgh and I've worked in counselling for many years. So yes, I am a properly qualified doctor. I have the impression that therapy's an unfamiliar experience for you. Perhaps you don't know what to expect?"

She raised a well-groomed eyebrow.

"I'm fine," she told Mycroft, flatly. She believed it, too. "It's him with the problem. Him with all the tears. Him with all the, _oh no our marriage._ Sort _him_ out, _doctor,_ so I can have some peace." 

Greg Lestrade pushed his hands quietly over his face, masking his expression. It wasn't tiredness. It was pain, disguised as exhaustion. 

"Why did you agree to come?" he asked his wife, his voice low against his palms. "You promised you wouldn't be like this."

"I'm here," she retorted, "so that you'll stop banging on at me about nothing, Greg. What do you even want from me? Go on and spell it out."

"I want you to talk to me," her husband said in desperation. "I want you to help me fix this, so we can—"

"Fix _me,_ you mean," she snapped.

"Babe, you're not… there's nothing wrong with you. It's just—"

"You're a pest," she bit at him. Mycroft's suspicions settled firmly into place and locked. "You know that? You're oversexed. And you're boring. You're driving me mad. Now you've dragged me in front of some doctor, so he can agree with you and tell you I'm a terrible wife. So for the record, _babe_ , you're dull as ditchwater in bed and I never should have married you."

Mycroft immediately intervened. 

"Perhaps," he cut in quickly, bringing a firm end to the discussion, "you might feel more comfortable speaking to me individually first. Perhaps if I spend a few minutes with each of you alone, and see if I can ascertain what each of you wants from these sessions, it would be helpful."

"I don't want anything," Mrs Lestrade said at once. Her shoulders set high. "I want to leave and get on with my week. How's that sound?"

Mycroft had heard a huge number of people say almost the same thing over the years—almost all of them unhappy husbands, who'd felt they'd been cruelly dragged to this humiliating place and presented to him for correction. Each time, he had to remind himself that they all had legs. They'd chosen to walk in through his door. Some part of them, however small, knew there was a problem and wanted it to change. They wanted it enough to walk in through his door, sit down in the waiting area, fill in a sheet of their most intimate details, then come through to his office and shake his hand.

Mrs Lestrade was no different.

She was hurting; she was angry. Her husband's attraction to her had come to feel rather predatory, and she couldn't imagine how common a feeling that was. Amongst all of the couples that Mycroft ever saw, low sexual desire and frequency disagreements were as normal a problem as there could be. It was terribly easy to talk through.

The Lestrades would be happy within weeks. They'd already completed the hardest stage just by walking through his door.

This would be simple, straightforward, and easily solved.

"Mr Lestrade, would you be good enough to return to the waiting area? I'll speak to your wife first, and then Anthea will let you know when I'm ready for you. I imagine we'll be about fifteen minutes."

Greg Lestrade nodded, pale and a little numb. This was not going how he'd anticipated, and Mycroft could tell—but it would be fine. As Mr Lestrade got unsteadily to his feet, Mycroft attempted to reassure him with a gentle look. Mr Lestrade acknowledged the look with a quiet nod, uneasy. He then turned to leave.

Hesitating, he laid a hand briefly on his wife's shoulder. Mycroft watched.

Helen Lestrade's eyes barely flickered. She maintained the same deadpan expression until her husband had taken his hand off her, turned, and quietly let himself out of the room.In the wake of the closing door, a short silence fell.

Sitting back in his chair, Mycroft gave Mrs Lestrade his most settling smile.

"Before I say anything else," he told her, his voice a murmur within the quiet, "I wish you to know that your husband doesn't need to hear a word of these next few minutes. This is entirely confidential between the two of us. If I think there are issues it would be helpful for the two of you to discuss, then naturally I'll encourage you to share them with him. But, for now, this is quite private. You are safe to speak."

Helen Lestrade looked into her new therapist's eyes. Something gleamed in her gaze.

"Good to know," she said.


	3. In Confidence

"Was it a shock when your husband suggested therapy?" Mycroft asked, lifting his cup of earl grey.

Helen Lestrade thought about it for a while. Her eyes drifted sideways to the ornamental peace lily on his bookcase, and a dullness fogged her expression.

"Yes," she said at length. "He'd been going on for a while about these... supposed  _ problems. _ But Jesus,  _ therapy?" _

She glanced at him, a little awkward. Her forehead creased.

"No offence."

"None taken." Mycroft sipped at his tea. "Without any experience of therapy, it can seem like a rather drastic intervention. In fact, most of its power comes from simply having someone to listen. We become prisoners of our own thoughts very easily. A therapist can help to create some space."

She processed this for a while, quiet. The departure of her husband seemed to have freed her of something. She was no longer ready to defend herself at any moment.

"How long have you known Mr Lestrade?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. As he did, he cast a discreet glance at the questionnaires now lying side-by-side upon his desk.

Mr Lestrade had responded to every question. Some of his answers were dotted with apologetic question marks, marking them as best guesses or estimates, but there seemed a willingness to offer up his thoughts. 

Mrs Lestrade's questionnaire was far more guarded.

Some sections—her masturbatory habits, for instance, and her sexual history—had been ignored in their entirety, while her answers throughout the rest were scattered, short, and given in a slanted hand that made them look as if they'd been sighed onto the paper.

For  _ how long have you known your partner?, _ her husband had given seven years and four months; she had written only six years.

"Six-ish?" she said. "Something like that. Met at a friend's barbecue."

A barbecue indicated a summer date. Mycroft found himself inclined to believe Greg's precision over her vagueness.

"And you married last December?" he said.

"Just before Christmas."

"How long had you been a couple by that point?"

She screwed her face up, thinking. "Five years?"

Mycroft glanced at the questionnaires, reaching for his tea. Her husband's dates, again, were given far more precisely. Mycroft was beginning to suspect a career that relied upon correct and accurate details. They had been married for eleven months now; the relationship had also begun in December, giving a timespan of exactly six years before marriage.

Mycroft then spotted, with some small interest, a note squeezed in parenthesis into the margins of Mr Lestrade's questionnaire. He sipped his tea, tilting his head to read it.

_ (break dec 2017 - march 2018) _

How interesting.

Five years into the relationship, lasting for three months, and yet both seemed to gloss over the gap when calculating durations. Mrs Lestrade hadn't mentioned it at all. Mycroft checked her husband's supplied date for the engagement.  _ March.  _ Whatever had caused the break, the reconciliation had been emotional enough to lead to a decision of marriage. 

A fairly short engagement of nine months had then followed. Now, coming up to their first wedding anniversary—having been together for just shy of seven years—the couple were encountering some differences in opinion.

"How would you describe your marriage?" Mycroft asked.

"Fine," Helen said, airily. She seemed to realise that a little more conviction might be wise. "Happy. Wish we got more holidays, but…  _ duty calls." _

Mycroft lifted his cup of tea back to his mouth. "How would you describe your sex life?"

Her expression flickered. "Fine," she said. "Pretty standard. I genuinely don't know why we're here."

Mycroft glanced down at the questionnaires. She'd given him no answers here. It seemed that if he wanted them, he'd have to come and get them. Mr Lestrade's freely-given responses sat alongside his wife's paper silence. His handwriting was clear and somewhat rounded; his quizzical question marks reminded Mycroft of little snakes.

"How often would you say you have sex?" Mycroft asked, to begin with.

Mrs Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Often enough."

"How often per week, say?"

She swirled in her head for an answer. "Once or twice?"

Mr Lestrade had written:  _ n/a, _ followed a rather sad ellipsis. Mycroft followed the helpful arrow across to the next box, and resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows.

"When did you last have sex, might I ask?" he enquired of Mrs Lestrade.

She shrugged. "Couple of weeks?" She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, with a glitter of her chandelier earrings. "I've been stressed. And Greg keeps agreeing to work late nights, so…"

Mr Lestrade had written:  _ 6 months ago. Same week as Arizona shootings in late May (no connection!)  _ Mycroft almost wanted to smile. The man had a head for dates at least, and he hadn't lost his sense of humour. It was a curious connection to make. Few people organised their short-term memories around major crimes. Mr Lestrade was apparently more aware of these things than the average person.

"Forgive me," Mycroft said, gently. "Your husband seems to think it's been a little longer. I'm trying to reconcile these dates."

Mrs Lestrade visibly bit her tongue.

"Of course he says that," she muttered. "What's he put? Last Christmas, was it? His birthday? He's a liar when he wants something."

Mycroft's eyebrows finally lifted. "Mm?"

"Mm," she said, and no more details.

"So when your husband states that you last had sex in late May, that's not correct?" he said.

"No," she tutted, avoiding his eyes. "Of course it's not."

"Do you  _ remember _ the last occasion you had sex?" he asked, with care.

Mycroft watched an unexpected glint touch her eyes.

Something like a smile started to form on her mouth. She twisted it immediately into an expression of distaste, and turned her head towards his certificates.

"No," she said. She lifted a hand to examine her shimmery pink nails. "I don't remember specifics. But it's been more recently than that. Greg's just being dramatic. He wants you on his side. Don't believe whatever crap he's written on your little sheet."

Mycroft nodded, keeping his professional conclusion carefully away from his face.

"Not a memorable encounter, I take it?" he asked, discreetly.

She sighed, scratching a little nail varnish from the cuticle of her thumbnail. "You can say that again."

"I get the impression that memorable encounters are becoming rather few and far between," Mycroft said.

_ That glint, _ Mycroft thought. What on earth was that glint in her eyes? She looked almost pleased with herself. Something kept amusing her greatly, something she was taking great pains to hide but on some level was rather desperate to reveal.

"Greg's not making a lot of effort," she said after a moment, recrossing her legs. "He's... he's a good enough man, you know? And he's always been sweet with me. I'm just… I don't know. Honestly it's getting embarrassing now."

"Embarrassing?" Mycroft said, gently. They might be on the verge of getting somewhere.

"Constantly hovering around me. Offering me backrubs. Laying out candles." She winced, pulling a face of discomfort. "It's so  _ transparent. _ It's pathetic."

Mycroft thought briefly of Mrs Armitage, his first client of the day, whose life was spent broken-heartedly comparing herself to the pornographic actresses half her age that her husband so ardently admired.

He wondered what Mrs Armitage would be prepared to give up in this world for a backrub and candles.

Glancing down at the questionnaires, Mycroft quickly ascertained that at the very start of their relationship they'd been having sex by Mr Lestrade's estimate on three to four occasions each week; that he'd classify his wife's normal sex drive as 'high'; and that what he hoped to achieve from these sessions was 'closeness'.

The shadowed beginnings of a suspicion stretched, yawned, and awoke in the depths of Mycroft's mind.

Mrs Lestrade was an intelligent woman. That much was clear. She had a certain inclination towards directness too, a bluntness about her, a contempt for the coaxing and gentle approach.

He decided therefore to try another angle.

"Had you had intimate relationships before your husband?" he checked, first.

She laughed aloud, throwing back her pretty head. 

"It's the twenty-first century!" she cried.  _ "Spare me!" _

Mycroft smiled. "Forgive me," he said. "Sex therapists learn very quickly not to assume. How would you compare your sex life with your husband to those previous relationships? Better? Worse?"

The question disarmed her. She took a moment to think about it, glancing back across at his bookcase. She didn't seem to like looking at him, Mycroft noted, sometimes through discomfort but more often apparently out of boredom. Nothing about him kept her eyes entertained.

"Worse?" she said at last, warily. "I don't know. He's boring the living daylights out of me. Does that answer your question?"

"Has it always been that way?" Mycroft asked.

Her forehead creased. 

"No," she said, surprised into honesty. "No, not at first. Not when it was new and interesting."

"There's been a change, then. A dwindling of passion perhaps."

"I suppose so." She gave Mycroft a guarded look across the desk, trying to figure out where this was leading. "Why?"

"Do you find yourself perhaps less attracted to him than you were once?"

She hesitated. "Yeah. Sort of." She bit the side of her cheek. "That's normal, though. Long term things. Always happens."

Mycroft did not comment. "When would you say the change occurred?"

She watched him as she thought about it, her pale blue gaze fixed carefully in his pebble grey. Some further surprising honesty emerged. 

"Marriage," she said.

"Very common," Mycroft told her, with a quiet smile. "Though by no means inevitable, and not at all unfixable. There's no reason to settle for a life without passion, especially if you were once—"

And there it was again: that glint. That gleam. That smothered, secret smile. With a horrible lurch, Mycroft reached a cold and inescapable conclusion. He stopped, mid-sentence, as he felt it all fall into place. This was not a case of faded desire. This was  _ transferred _ desire.

Mr Lestrade might have fallen into semi-celibacy, but his wife had not.

Helen Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, startled by his sudden stop—and Mycroft looked into her eyes, reading there everything he needed to know. He folded his hands upon the questionnaires, calmly. He took a moment to prepare the question in his mouth.

"For how long have you been having the affair?" he asked at last.

For a few moments, she said and did absolutely nothing.

Then she lifted her chin, and said,

"September."

Mycroft processed this for a short time. "Mr Lestrade doesn't know?" he clarified.

"No," she said. Her eyes darkened. "Nor will he know."

"Has he given you any indication that he suspects that you're being unfaithful?"

"No." She bit her lip, pressing her white teeth against the glossy red plush of her mouth. "I'm being careful this time."

_ "This _ time?" Mycroft said, trying to keep the despair from his voice.

"Mm."

"There's been infidelity in the relationship before?"

"Mhm. Few times, if I'm honest." She looked at him, amused. Her eyes were dancing. Part of her wanted to shock him. She wanted him to be appalled. "One big one, though… couple of years ago… got found out that time."

She sighed, glancing down at her nails, fanning them out to gaze at their soft pink shine.

"Big fuss," she muttered. "Got it all sorted eventually, though. Greg forgave me in the end. Bless his soft heart. I promised him I'd never cheat again. Swore to him he was the one. Told him I'd change for him. It was all a bit of a rush. Then suddenly we were engaged."

She drew another sigh, reminiscing some glory, swelling slightly as she breathed it in.

"All my friends were jealous," she murmured. "Big day. Pretty white dress in a posh hotel..."

Her eyes fogged.

"But now I just...  _ can't, _ y'know? I just look at him and... and it's like the switch just won't flick on. He's always being so sickly sweet over me. Buying me things, taking me out. Trying so hard. It's just  _ gross. _ It's boring the life out of me."

Mycroft couldn't have spoken if he'd tried.

"You know the last time I  _ actually _ found him sexy?" she said, staring across Mycroft's desk with frank and almost contemptuous eyes. "I mean really,  _ truly _ sexy?" Her gaze shuttered. "When he found out I was cheating on him. He got all angry. Raging he was gonna put the other guy through a wall."

She shivered, slowly.

_ "Yes, please.  _ But now? Now, I just..." 

She sighed, shaking her head in despair. 

"Met the other one at the gym," she muttered. "PE teacher. Local secondary school. One thing led to another."

She tugged her glossy lip between her teeth.

"I know I should feel guilty. Maybe on some level I do. I just get bored. And Greg doesn't make an effort anyway, does he? Always working late. What am I supposed to do? Just wait around until I'm dead? I've got needs."

She trailed at last into silence.

Mycroft took a moment to remind himself that the first duty of a therapist was to listen without judgement. He pushed a number of thoughts firmly and decisively to the back of his head. With an intake of breath, he said,

"If your husband discovers the affair—"

"He won't," she said, surveying Mycroft coolly.

"Mrs Lestrade, as you've already found out, these things are very difficult to conceal for any length of time. And this level of dishonesty in your marriage is desperately unhealthy. I suggest very strongly that—"

"He  _ won't _ find out," she told him again, sharper. "I'm being careful this time. Have to be."

She looked away across his office, annoyed, and eyed his peace lily with contempt.

"Said that if I cheat on him again, he'll end it," she muttered. "No third chances. Game over. So…"

Mycroft willed himself calm. "Do you wish to stay in this marriage?" he asked.

She looked at him like he was being stupid. 

"Yes," she sneered. "Yes, of course I do. He's mine."

"Then you  _ must _ end the affair," Mycroft said. His voice hardened. "You must end it  _ immediately." _

Mrs Lestrade poked her tongue into her cheek. "I know," she tutted. "Alright? I know I have to. It's just… look, you don't get it. I like the chase. I like the game. I like feeling like... like somebody wants me. I can't help it. It just gets me. And Greg—"

"With the greatest of respect, Mrs Lestrade, your  _ husband _ seems to want you. Rather desperately."

She rolled her eyes to one side. "That's different," she sighed, as if he couldn't possibly begin to understand the complexities of the situation.

Mycroft made a mental note to speak to a colleague before he had a second session with Helen Lestrade. He was experiencing a degree of anger that was not sustainable in the course of his duties. It was impacting his ability to empathise with her, and to help her.

It had been a long time since a client had managed to cause him this much distress. 

He wondered why. Something about her bluntness produced a foul taste in the back of his mouth. He couldn't recall the last occasion he'd encountered someone so sharply self-aware and spectacularly ignorant at once. He would ensure this was under control before he met with her again, though one thing at least was certain.

Greg Lestrade truly had married one-in-a-million.

Mycroft reached for his now cold Earl Grey, taking a sip to steady himself. It was enough to cool his thoughts enough to guide this discussion to a close. 

As he placed the cup back in its saucer, he asked,

"Why did you come to see me, Mrs Lestrade? What is it you would like me to do for you?"

She frowned, unsettled by the question.

"I came because Greg set it up," she said. "That's why."

"Your husband made the initial appointment," Mycroft said. "It's true. But you could have chosen not to accompany him. You could have stayed away. Instead you're here. Some part of you, however small, is seeking an outcome that you hope I can help you reach. What is that outcome, Mrs Lestrade? What would be your ideal situation, a year from now?"

She thought about it for some time. Mycroft watched a number of responses cross her mind, and get discarded one by one. 

"I'm not sure," she said eventually. "I... like things as they are now."

"Do you wish to revive the closeness of your marriage?" Mycroft prompted. "Or to pursue the relationship with your lover?"

She looked into his eyes. He watched her reach a conclusion.

"Both," she said.

Mycroft took a moment to quieten himself. "I cannot help you with that," he said, simply. "If, as you say, your husband has indicated that he won't tolerate further infidelity, you must choose between them. I'm afraid that you'll need to choose quickly."

"Fine," she shrugged. "I choose Greg. Now fix him."

Mycroft wasn't buying that for a moment, nor was he in the business of fixing anybody, especially Mr Lestrade.

"Until you've ended your affair," he said, "it will be impossible for me to repair the bond with your husband. He will need your honesty, Helen. Your attention. Your commitment to the marriage."

"He's already got those," she said, sneering faintly. "What more does he want?"

Mycroft realised the productive window of this session had now firmly snapped shut. He would need to unpack and address his own anger before they could make any progress with her, and he still needed to speak to the poor bastard who'd been exiled to his waiting room.

He took a long breath, reminded himself that he'd not worked this hard on his career to shipwreck it now, and said,

"I suggest that you and I speak privately again in our next session. For now, I would like to take some time with your husband and ascertain what he hopes to gain from therapy."

Something wild flashed across her eyes.

"My promise of confidentiality," he added, "is not changed by what you've told me. I'm a medical professional, Mrs Lestrade. I will not be revealing your affair to Greg." He paused, looking at her very seriously across the top of his glasses. "However. If you wish to preserve the marriage, I urge you  _ wholeheartedly—" _

"Of course I want to—"

"—to  _ end _ the affair," Mycroft said, talking over her. "Immediately. And permanently."

She lapsed into sullen silence, glaring at the edge of his desk.

Mycroft continued.

"Then, and only then, will I be able to guide you and your husband through the process of recovering your closeness. While your affair continues—"

"Alright!" she bit at him, annoyed. _ "Fine. _ I'll end it. I'll tell the other guy. Consider it done."

Mycroft said nothing, reading her face, his grey eyes hard.

Helen Lestrade read him right back. "You'd better not tell Greg," she warned him.

Mycroft gently bit the end of his tongue. 

"He shan't hear it from me," he promised. "My profession holds its ethical responsibilities to the very highest standard. I have a duty of care to you, and what you've told me will not reach your husband."

He reached for his tea cup.

"Similarly," he added, "anything that Greg tells me in confidence will not reach you."

A slow smile spread across her lips.

The foul taste returned to Mycroft's mouth.

"Greg doesn't have secrets," she said. Her eyes glinted, delighted by the very idea. "He's not interesting enough to have secrets."


	4. Space to Share

Mr Lestrade was not at all put out by the wait. He re-entered Mycroft's office with the same open-faced friendliness as he'd first arrived, and resumed his armchair without being asked. He sat upon his hands, Mycroft noted, wedging them beneath the worn grey denim of his jeans. He was possibly a smoker like his wife. The urge to occupy idle hands was quite telling.

Helen Lestrade had almost certainly gone to smoke now. To smoke and send a number of text messages.

"Can I offer you tea or coffee?" Mycroft asked, standing by the kettle. It had been boiling within seconds of Mrs Lestrade's exit. He'd never needed a cup of tea so much in his life.

Something a little guilty crossed the deep brown eyes of his newest client. Even without his wife here, Mr Lestrade wanted to make the decisions that she made, but the lure of caffeine proved too much for him. 

"Coffee would be great, actually. Thanks."

Mycroft allowed himself to smile a little. "Milk and sugar?"

"God. Please."

Mycroft filled their cups with hot water. He should have been observing Mr Lestrade's behaviour, seeing where his eyes naturally drifted, checking him for signs of nervousness or unhappiness.

But he couldn't stop thinking about the man's wife.

 _The brazenness of it,_ he thought.

Mycroft hadn't used the word _brazen_ in years. It was one of the first words that had to go once you'd committed yourself to the path of sex therapy. Some concepts simply had to be abandoned in their entirety, or risk the very greatest of professional problems down the line, brazenness being one of them.

Something about Helen Lestrade had unsettled him deeply though. He spent his days gently and carefully guiding clients to be more honest—both with him, with themselves, and with their partners—but Mrs Lestrade had needed no such coaxing. Her honesty had been resolute and inflexible and proud. _This is what I want,_ she'd seemed to say. _Everything. Make this possible. Take it from him if you have to. I shall have it and nothing less._

The woman was going to have to learn to compromise, Mycroft thought, or she would almost certainly lose her marriage.

He only hoped that beneath her initial guardedness there was some underlying compassion they could work with, some genuine love for the poor man. Otherwise, a reconciliation simply wouldn't be feasible. She'd claimed to love her husband with the same short-tempered bluntness she'd asked Mycroft if he were an actual doctor. 

The only real emotion he'd glimpsed was when she'd hungrily recalled her husband's distress, discovering he'd been humiliated by the woman he loved.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Mycroft stirred Greg Lestrade's coffee. He let the scent quieten the ragged edges of his mind. Ananya had a slot available at three, if he recalled. He mentally pencilled himself in for the full hour and returned himself to his desk.

"Thanks," said Greg Lestrade, taking the offered mug in both hands. He gave Mycroft a hopeful smile. "You probably make a hundred cups of this a day, do you? Bet you're an expert at tea and coffee by now."

Mycroft realised, with a lurch, that Mr Lestrade was attempting to settle _him._ To soften him, to cheer him slightly. His therapist. Whatever the man did for a living, he was quick to spot the instinctive signs of unease and just as quick to try and soothe them.

Ordering himself to restrain his rampant emotions at once, Mycroft decided to return to the light humour that Mr Lestrade had previously responded well to. 

He gave the man a small smile and sat back down at his desk. 

"Fortunately," he said, "it gives me an excuse to make myself a cup, too."

Greg grinned. "Earl grey, is it?"

Mycroft found himself surprised. "It is, as it happens. Leads to more tranquil sessions for my clients than if I consume eighteen cups of coffee a day."

The man laughed, delighted. He had a wonderful laugh, open, boyish and honest. It was laughter that came from the roots. Mycroft found himself relaxing a little just at the sound of it, some of the shadows of his mind briefly dispelled—only for them to return, twice as thick, as he recalled the deceptive conversation he must now have. 

_How little you'd be laughing, if you knew half the truth._

"Are you a tea drinker yourself?" Mycroft asked, reaching for the shelter of casual conversation. 

"Not so much," Mr Lestrade said. "Sometimes at night. My sergeant's the tea person. She's on an earl grey thing at the minute. I recognise the smell."

_Sergeant?_

"You're a police officer?" Mycroft said, surprised, and the clues at last fell into place: an inclination towards accuracy and detail, an interest in crime. Late nights. _Duty calls._

Greg Lestrade smiled, sitting back a little in his armchair.

"Yeah, I'm CID," he said. He held his coffee to his chest with both hands. "Criminal Investigation."

"A detective?" Mycroft said, his heart falling. _Dear Christ._ The woman was even more darkly embroiled in her own deceptiveness than he'd realised. Humiliating a police officer, a _detective,_ keeping secrets from the man whose entire specialty was the uncovering of secrets. It was all a power game for her, Mycroft realised. She found her own cleverness delicious. She might even be addicted to it by now, outsmarting him, humiliating him, and from the sound of things she'd gotten very good at it.

This was worsening by the minute.

Her husband's smile broke its way through Mycroft's thoughts, jogging him yet again to the present.

"—thirteen years now," he heard the man say. "It keeps me busy, at least. I think Helen wishes we could get away more often. We're thinking maybe Dorset for Christmas. Little cottage somewhere. She'd rather head out to Spain again, but all the hotels are booked by now... so..."

He was growing nervous, Mycroft realised. Offering details, chat. Trying to settle them both.

Mycroft reached for his almost scalding earl grey. He took a sip, letting the searing heat cut through the miasma of his own distress, and said,

"Then with a sergeant, you aren't Mr Lestrade at all. You're Inspector Lestrade, are you not? Forgive me. I should have checked."

 _That easy grin,_ Mycroft thought with a flash of pain. The man barely needed a reason to smile.

"S'alright," Inspector Lestrade said, cheerfully. "I'm not funny with the title. Mr Lestrade is fine. I mean... Greg's better, but..."

Mycroft smiled. "Well, then. Greg it is." First names would be helpful to their own relationship, the closeness of which was now going to be more vital than ever. "My name is Mycroft. Your wife seems more comfortable with Dr Holmes, but you're welcome to address me however you wish."

"Right." Greg's eyes brightened. "Mycroft," he remarked. "Unusual."

"Ah, yes. My mother had rather a flair for creative names." Noting a rare urge to offer personal details, Mycroft decided to humour it. "Would you believe my younger brother was christened Sherlock? It seems I got off rather lightly."

He wanted to connect with Inspector Lestrade, he realised—to give the man the honesty and human attachment that his wife did not. That would have to be monitored. For now, it was a helpful impulse. His new client needed a friend.

He watched as Inspector Lestrade gave him a slightly guilty grin. "Yeah, I… sort of know your brother."

Mycroft hesitated, fingers curling around the handle of his cup. "You do?"

"He helps me out from time to time," Inspector Lestrade said. "He's the consulting detective, right? I suppose there's not many Sherlock Holmeses in London. Thank God."

His eyes sparkled.

"Sherlock mentions you, now and then," he said. "He, erm... calls you a—"

"—professional pervert," Mycroft finished, which provoked a laugh. It was good to hear someone laughing in this office. It didn't happen nearly often enough.

"So when I was looking around for someone to come and see, I thought… well…" Lestrade hesitated, his eyes flashing with more of that puppyish humour. "If I'm honest, I wondered how much you'd be like Sherlock. The idea of a slightly older version of him giving sex therapy to people was… I mean, that was too much _not_ to come and see."

Mycroft realised he was smiling against the rim of his tea cup, delighted. He didn't quite dare to speak.

"You're not," Lestrade added, at once. His eyes danced, looking into Mycroft's with hope that he hadn't offended. "Like your brother, I mean. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with Sherlock. You seem a bit more settled, maybe. A bit more..." 

He laughed nervously, stopping himself, and lifted the coffee mug to his mouth. 

"Shut up, Greg," he muttered into it. "We're embarrassing ourselves."

Mycroft's heart quietened, watching the man drink. Clients who talked to themselves—teased themselves, kept themselves in line—often transpired to spend a lot of time with their own thoughts. It wasn't unusual to discover they'd come to rely on the comfort of their own company, sometimes in the sad absence of sharing their thoughts with others. The longing to communicate was all there; a welcoming and supportive listener was not.

"I'm afraid the rule in this office," Mycroft said, and watched the man's eyes soften, "is _don't_ shut up, Greg. That's rather the golden rule, in fact."

Greg smiled, quietly moved. He took a drink of coffee. "Are there more rules?" he asked.

 _Heaven help me._ The man was desperately easy to talk to. Speaking to his wife had been like slowly drawing the smallest amount of poison from a festering wound, and receiving a good mouthful of it for his trouble, but Greg Lestrade was quite distractingly sociable. 

It was clearly not a marriage of similarities.

"There _are_ more rules," Mycroft said. "Though you'll be glad to hear that most of them are for me, rather than for you."

 _"Don't call people perverts?"_ Greg suggested, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft bit down on a smile. "For a start." He wondered if they should drag this conversation around to the actual therapy the poor man was paying for. "More importantly, give you a space to share whatever you wish with me, in complete confidence, without any fear of judgement."

Greg smiled, squeezing his coffee mug. "Good to hear."

His wife had expressed the same sentiment, Mycroft recalled.

He only hoped Greg Lestrade wasn't about to make such spectacular use of it.

"Where do we start?" Greg asked, trying to rally his humour. "GP usually tells me off for smoking and fry-ups, if it helps. But I suppose you're a different kind of doctor..." He grinned awkwardly. "Tell me off for wanking too much, maybe?"

Mycroft discreetly checked the questionnaire. 

"Fret not," he said. "Terribly average."

Greg's eyes widened. _"Really?"_

"Mm. Rather restrained, in fact, for a man having sex as infrequently as you do."

"Jesus. I'll sneak a few more in, then. Thanks." Greg took another drink of coffee, still startled. "Just for my information," he said, "how high does that number have to get before you worry about me? Not that I'm trying to set a weekly budget here."

Mycroft smirked helplessly. With purpose he softened the expression into a smile.

"Difficult to specify a number," he said. "It's considered a problem if it becomes compulsive, interferes with your work or social life, or causes harm to the genitals. We'll cross that bridge if you come to it."

"Causes harm to—... does that actually happen?"

"Due to confidentiality," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair, "I couldn't possibly tell you that I see it several times a month."

Greg took a wide-eyed drink of coffee. 

"Right," he said, amazed. "Well, this has been handy already. Thanks."

"Not at all." Mycroft opened the topmost drawer in his desk, flicked deftly through the range of available titles and withdrew a suitable pamphlet, sliding it neatly across the desk. "First piece of homework," he said. "Read and digest, please. Quiz next week. No practical exam, you'll be glad to hear."

Greg glanced over the title and spluttered into his coffee. 

"Christ," he said, dabbing his chin with his sleeve. "She'll have my hide if I come home with a leaflet called _Sexual Self Care For Men."_

 _Of course she even takes issue with you masturbating._ Mycroft suspected the enforced celibacy might somehow be pleasing her, part of a power play. Copious sex for herself but none for him. It would make sense.

"I'll give you ten minutes to read at the end," he told Greg, reassuringly, and smiled over his glasses. "I'll supply you with another coffee and you can broaden your knowledge in peace."

Greg grinned, abashed. "Well... thanks." He glanced at Mycroft's drawer. "You've got the lot there, have you? Leaflets for all afflictions?"

"Name a topic," Mycroft said, turning a pen between his fingers. 

"Christ..."

Mycroft checked, idly. He slid free another pamphlet. 

_"Sex, Faith and God,"_ he said, sliding it across. "Rather introductory, I'm afraid, but there's only so much you can fit on a tri-fold."

Greg's eyes gleamed as he smiled. 

"This isn't going how I imagined," he admitted. "I'm glad. It's… nice."

"What worried you?" Mycroft asked, out of interest.

"I don't know," Greg said. He thought about it for a moment. "Suppose I imagined I'd be lying on a couch, telling you all about my childhood."

"We'll get onto that part," Mycroft said. "Not today. When you're ready."

Greg smiled, glancing down into his mug. 

"Fun," he said. "Looking forward to it."

He paused, then added,

"I'm... sorry if Helen was a bit short with you. She takes a while to warm to people." He rubbed his thumb over the handle of his mug. Mycroft let him speak. "She seemed alright with the idea earlier this week, but… I don't know. Suddenly got a bit uneasy this morning. Probably nerves, right? I hope she didn't take a bite out of you."

Mycroft took a quiet sip of his tea.

"Nerves are very normal," he said. "Though if you'll permit me to say, _you_ seem rather at ease. Have you had previous experience of therapy?"

"Some mandatory stuff with the police counsellor a couple of times," Greg said. "Rough cases, y'know. You end up seeing things that it's hard to stop seeing when the trial's all over. Part of the job." 

He drank his coffee. 

"Mandy's nice. Always a laugh. Gets you back on your feet. And my sister and her fella had some trouble a year or two ago, so they went to see someone. She swears by it now. Telling everyone to get themselves to therapy. So I thought... well, give it a try. Can't hurt."

Mycroft smiled, gently. Family support would help, he thought, should the worst happen. "An older sister?"

"Nah," Greg said. "Younger. I do _have_ an older sister, though." He smiled, happy just to talk. "And three brothers."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "Six of you?"

"Yep. I'm three of six." Greg produced the ordered list that children from large families often seemed to know by heart. "Sarah, John, Greg, Lisa, Simon and Chris." He smiled, an easy quirk of his handsome mouth. "Weddings are hectic."

"I can imagine." Mycroft tilted his head, still turning the pen between his fingers. "Are you close to your siblings?"

"I see Lisa the most," Greg said. "Number four, just after me. It was her had the therapy couple of years ago. Her eldest's got my name for his middle. Really sweet of her. Sadly he's turning out to be a handful, but never mind. His mum's up until two o'clock most nights these days, wondering where the hell he is. Seventeen years old and he owns the world."

"Wild oats to be sewn?" Mycroft said, with a wry smile. "Youth is wasted on the young."

His new client snorted, looking down into his coffee. 

"Isn't it?" he muttered. He smiled, rather sadly. "Sorry. I'm... going on. Came here to talk about things with Helen and I keep wandering off topic."

"We can talk about anything you wish, Greg. It's useful for me to get to know your wider life."

Greg looked up, eyes soft. "Yeah?"

"Mm." Mycroft smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Sex therapy is only on the rarest of occasions actually about sex."

Greg laughed, looking down into his coffee. 

"Right," he said. "I'll bear that in mind. The embarrassing form was just for blackmail purposes, was it?"

"A convenient way of finding out a little about you both, and your relationship." Mycroft rested his chin on one hand. "It's interesting to see where the two of you agree and where you differ. It helps me to form a more complete picture."

Greg lifted his coffee back to his mouth, a little awkward. 

"How's the picture looking so far?" he asked. "What's the verdict?"

Mycroft looked into his eyes for a moment. _If only you knew._

"I'd like to hear your take on things first," he said. "How you think things are in the relationship. What changes you would bring, if you had the choice. Any differences that seem to be causing conflict between you."

Greg swirled the dregs of his coffee mug and drank the very last of it. He seemed unsure where to start.

"I appreciate that it's a broad request," Mycroft said, gently. "You might have quite a few things in mind."

Greg smiled rather ruefully. 

"Haven't said it aloud until now," he said. "Spent weeks desperate to talk to someone, and now… s'kinda hard to know what to say. Can't even find the words."

Mycroft placed his tea cup aside.

"The two of you seem to be intimate rather less frequently than you once were," he said, as a suggested beginning. "Would you say that's a fair conclusion?"

Greg huffed. "Yeah… yeah, that's fair." He bit at the corner of his lip. "I, erm... get snapped at if I even try to kiss her, these days. Tells me I'll mess up her lipstick."

He hesitated.

"She was watching TV on the couch last night," he said. "Texting away. All her friends."

Mycroft's heart contracted tightly. 

Inspector Lestrade continued, unaware.

"I came up to rub her shoulders," he said, "and she asked me what the hell I was doing. Looked at me appalled. Like I was up to something. Like I was craftily trying to get my end away, as usual... and then I… I just felt like a bit of a pervert, to be honest. Just left her alone. Stupid thing is I wasn't even thinking about... I'd just wanted to check she was alright. Say hi, sort of thing. But that's… that's where we are now."

He sighed, his shoulders stiffening.

"Sorry," he said. "This is all kinda near the surface. I shouldn't—"

"It's quite alright," Mycroft said, gently. "Say whatever you wish. There's no need to stop."

His new client exhaled, looking away. While his wife had cast her bored gaze around Mycroft's office, taking in details and decor and objects, Greg Lestrade tended to look downwards when uneasy, at his feet, his hands, the knees of his jeans. He was more introverted, Mycroft thought. He located himself more within his own thoughts.

He was used to being alone in them.

"I don't know, Dr Holmes," he sighed. "I try to be a decent husband. Pretty sure I'm doing something majorly wrong. Every time I ask if she's okay, she tells me things are fine. Seems to just get more annoyed with me. Maybe I'm clingy. Expecting too much. Just seems..."

He twisted his wedding ring quietly around his finger.

"Not even been a year," he said. "I mean, I never expected we'd be… y'know, in love forever. Fucking like rabbits until we're—"

He stopped, suddenly. His eyes flicked to Mycroft.

"Sorry," he said, colouring. "Habit. Police work gets sweary."

"Use whatever language is yours, inspector," Mycroft said. "I've heard the word fucking before. Don't worry. Go on."

Greg smiled a little, looking down again. His eyes crinkled at the edges. 

"Well… I suppose I always knew things would cool a bit," he said. "They always do, right? But…" He looked up at Mycroft, quietly desperate. "A year's too soon, isn't it? Am I just a pushy old perv? Tell me if I am. _Please._ Tell me straight so I can sort it out and make my peace. I feel like I'm going mad."

Mycroft took a moment to compose himself. 

His entirely neutral expression hid a silent tumult of grief for the man. Not only had his wife embarked upon an insultingly risky and entirely guilt-free affair, she'd convinced the poor fool that he was some kind of deviant. A pervert, for craving so much as a scrap of her affections. She'd secured herself everything. He'd consented to take nothing, only guilt for even asking.

Mycroft realised with a heavy heart that this marriage already rested wholly within his hands. While Mrs Lestrade continued her affair, it would be immoral for him to reconcile them. That much was clear. So far as he understood, Mr Lestrade's threat to end the relationship in the event of further infidelity had been utterly serious. If he knew the whole truth, Greg would be seeking separation in this moment, not closeness.

But Mycroft could not reveal the affair.

As distressing as he'd found her lack of compassion, Helen Lestrade was his client. Client confidentiality was sacrosanct. Mycroft had heard far more shocking confessions across this desk over the years, and he'd protected them with every iota of his professional dignity. Mrs Lestrade's indiscretion was also his to protect.

He had to protect it even now, as her husband was gazing across his desk, begging him for reassurance with those big brown eyes, desperate to hear that he was not some kind of deviant, not a bad person for wanting some semblance of a sex life eleven months into a marriage.

Mycroft laid his hands quietly upon the questionnaires. He took a moment to gather up his thoughts.

"It is entirely possible," he said, "for a couple many years into a marriage to still be enjoying regular sex. There's no normal or ideal amount of sex. For every couple, there exists an optimum level which works for both partners and their needs. But as it stands Greg, you're clearly quite unhappy. I think you'd agree with me on that."

The man's chest heaved in silence. He didn't say a word, just gazed into Mycroft's eyes in despair, holding the empty mug in both hands.

"You're not a pervert for wanting a sex life," Mycroft told him, gently. He regarded Greg over his glasses. "There's nothing abnormal in craving intimacy and affection. Nothing abnormal in wanting closeness with another human. Nothing could be further from the truth."

Greg Lestrade swallowed, thickly. 

"S'good to hear," he managed. His voice was rather tight.

"Your wife and I have identified a number of things that she and I can work to resolve in future sessions," Mycroft said, calmly. "In the same way, you and I will address your own personal needs. When you're both comfortable with the idea, we'll look at getting you into discussions together. The ultimate goal of sex therapy is to help two people reconcile seemingly disparate sexual differences in a way that allows both partners to feel like they've maintained their integrity."

Mycroft reached for his tea.

"And if you're both willing to work for the good of the marriage," he said, and took a sip, "then I see no reason that you and your wife can't be happy."

It was the most that his ethical standards would permit him to say. 

Mr Lestrade, a man of intelligence, was all too aware of that conditional clause.

"D'you think she _is_ willing?" he asked. His throat sounded rather dry. "Helen, I mean. Willing to work with me. To fix this."

Mycroft drank slowly from his tea, buying himself a moment. This was not going to be easy. He would feel better when Helen Lestrade had separated from her lover. Until that point, supporting Mr Lestrade would by necessity involve a degree of deception and concealment that made Mycroft feel desperately uncomfortable.

He already feared somewhat for where this might end.

"I can't give you any indication of what I've discussed with your wife," he said gently, as he put down his cup. "You can speak to her of course, once you're home. But suffice to say, it's a positive sign that she agreed to attend with you today. If she continues to attend, it suggests that she too desires a successful outcome."

"Right." Greg bit his lip, breathing out. "Okay. That's enough for now, I guess. I can cope with that."

Mycroft found himself overwhelmed with the need to reassure. Even if he couldn't promise him what he'd come for, he wanted to promise him _something._ Some happiness in this world, perhaps. Some comfort within his own skin.

He gave Greg a smile, holding that anxious brown gaze safely within his own.

"Regardless of your wife's progress, Greg—and regardless of any decisions that you both reach—please know that I'm here for as long as you need me. I have clients who've occupied that chair fifty-two times a year for several years now. I will be here to support you as long as you wish." 

The man's expression eased. Calm settled over his face. 

"Thanks," he said, quietly. "I… thanks. That's a big help, actually." He flushed. "I don't get to talk as much as I should. It'll be good just… knowing there's somebody there, maybe."

Mycroft's heart stirred. "Entirely what I'm here for."

Greg breathed it in. "Good," he said. He glanced into his empty mug. "What happens now?"

Mycroft unfolded himself gracefully from his chair.

"Now," he said, offering a hand for the mug, "I'll make you another coffee and you can do some reading. I'll take a look through your questionnaire before your next session with me—which I'd recommend weekly to start with, if that suits—then the three of us can begin plotting a road map for how to solve these difficulties. Does that seem workable?"

"Sure. Sure, that seems okay."

"Excellent." Mycroft picked up the kettle. "Do get started. I'll return in a minute for any questions."

Greg smiled to himself, bemused, and picked up the pamphlet.

Mycroft left him in the armchair reading, and headed to the staff kitchen. On his way back with the kettle, he took a brief glance into the waiting area. There was no sign of Mrs Lestrade. Wondering, Mycroft drifted over to the reception desk. 

Anthea was busy updating the practice's appointment records, sucking on the end of a pen. The girl's oral fixation would be the end of him.

Mycroft leant low to her ear, keeping his voice down. _"Mrs_ Lestrade?" he enquired.

Anthea gave him a shrewd flash of her eyes. 

"Waited for two minutes," she murmured, "then left. Told me to pass along to her husband that she's gone shopping. She'll see him later at home."

Mycroft supposed he should have known. "Thank you," he murmured. "Is Dr Sahasrabuddhe still available at three?"

Anthea checked the diary. "She is."

Mycroft took the pen from her, added a small M to the appropriate slot, and gave it back.

"You chose very wisely with administration," he told her. "Therapy is far too self-replicating." He then returned with the kettle to his office.


	5. Unsettled

That afternoon, at a few minutes to three, Mycroft rose wearily from his desk. He tipped back the last of his cooled cup of tea, took his license to practice down from the wall and removed it with care from its prized walnut frame.

He then carried it with him along the corridor to her office.

_A. SAHASRABUDDHE_   
_Family Therapist_   
_MSc Counselling Psych, BSc (Hons) Counselling Psych, AFT, AAMFT, CAMFT_

Mycroft knocked, waited for the call, then let himself in.

Ananya looked up from her work with interest. A smile graced her features, followed by a curious frown as he handed her the licence.

"Shred this immediately," he sighed, and dropped himself down onto her coach. He toed off his brogues, one and then the other. They hit the floor with two soft clunks. "I am unfit to practice."

Amused, Ananya laid the licence aside. She stood from her desk, crossed gracefully to the chair beside the coach and settled herself within it, crossing one leg over the other. She was every inch the calm and peaceful presence that he needed her to be, though he'd come to expect nothing less. It was Ananya who'd recommended Mycroft to the practice six years ago. She was without a doubt his oldest friend. Their student years together in Edinburgh were very fondly remembered.

"Which of them have you strangled?" she asked, regarding him fondly with her oak brown eyes.

Mycroft put his hands across his face, sighing into his palms. 

"A new one," he said. "A... _perfectly ordinary_ woman, who only needs the blessed idiot to take her roughly across the kitchen table now and then."

He drew a breath, removing his hands. 

"She's embarked on an affair," he said, to begin with. "Utterly understandable from her point of view. She's done it before, why not again? She wants the thrill of the chase. He doesn't know that she wants it. And they're not talking, so it was inevitable this would happen. She couldn't possibly have made a more logical decision. And I transformed into Mary bloody Whitehouse," he sighed, "clutching at my pearls..."

He gazed up at Ananya in exasperation. 

She looked back at him, waiting, as patient as a mountain.

"Do you know how many instances of infidelity I deal with each week?" he asked her. 

Ananya merely smiled, holding his gaze. 

"Countless," Mycroft replied. _"Endless._ Extra-marital affairs pay my rent, Ananya. Frankly, it's a rarity to happen across actual monogamy anymore. And yet suddenly..." 

Something occurred to him out of the blue.

"Is your young man still hovering when your sister calls round?" he asked.

"No," Ananya replied, pleased. "I mentioned her recurrent yeast infections. Worked like a charm. Thank you."

"Not at all. Dispelling the glamour usually does the trick. And did you try the—?"

"Oh! Yes. I was ready by the door when he came home. The poor man could barely walk the next day. I think that's the passion secured for another six months."

Mycroft had thought as much. "They're simple creatures when they're young," he told her, dimly. "Novelty. Shock value."

"Mm, I'm learning that."

"If he starts hinting about anal, come to see me," Mycroft said. "I have pamphlets. The short version is nothing over eight inches, don't be conservative with the lubricant and when you think that you're ready, give it one more minute."

Ananya made a discreet note on the back of her hand.

"And now to your own affairs?" she said.

Mycroft suppressed another sigh. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing at his tired eyes beneath.

"Mr and Mrs Lestrade," he said. _"Affairs_ being the optimum word."

"You're strongly affected by them?"

"Mmh. And unsure why."

Ananya shifted her position, gently leaning back in her chair. "Describe them to me."

Mycroft breathed in. He closed his eyes.

"She is... almost brutally self-serving, if I'm candid. Very defensive. Above all else, she wants to be wanted." His brow furrowed, realisations forming. "She wasn't sure how to cope with me... presumably aware on some level that I'm inaccessible, not worth her attention... frankly, her only real love seems to be for her own cunning. If I were the type to diagnose a patient after a single session, I'd be strongly leaning towards narcissism."

He pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth.

"Fond memories of the wedding day. Being the centre of attention, the star. Fond memories of the poor man's distress over her first instance of infidelity, too. Their reconciliation led to the proposal, but he's indicated to her there are no third chances. If he discovers her present affair, he'll end the marriage."

Ananya's eyebrows lifted. "He doesn't know?"

"No. No, he has no idea."

Confusion crossed her gaze. "Why have they come to see you?"

Mycroft inhaled slowly.

 _"He_ made the appointment," he said. "They've had a marked drop in intimacy and passion, and haven't shared any sort of sexual closeness since May. Any affection he shows her is being interpreted as predatory and pushy. She's quite satisfied with the lover, thank you very much."

He paused.

"About whom she told me very little, I now realise. But then, why would she? He is a means to an end."

His thoughts swirled as he spoke, taking shape, forming into something he could study.

"What she wants from it is the power," he said. "The freedom. The thrill. Not the lover himself, and her husband is just a danger to make it all fun. _Both_ men are means to an end. She feels no remorse for the affair. She's viciously remorseless, in fact. I doubt her early family situation can have been a comfortable one. She's learned to trust no one else with her security, and so she makes it for herself. From the bones of those who love her, if necessary."

His thoughts trailed out into the quiet.

"I should feel pity for her," he murmured, resting his hands flat upon his stomach. "Her behaviour clearly stems from pain."

"Do you feel pity?" Ananya asked.

Mycroft closed his eyes again. "No."

"What do you feel?" she said gently, somewhere outside his closed eyelids.

Mycroft took a moment to breathe, letting the truth rise to the surface.

"Distress," he said at last. "Irritation. Quite extreme irritation." His fingers laced themselves upon his stomach. "Shock," he added. "Genuinely, I find myself alarmed by such aggressive self-focus. Her lack of compassion. I find her frightening."

"Frightening?" Ananya let the word rest for a moment between them. "What are you afraid of?"

Mycroft's heart thudded. The source of the feeling was difficult to locate; it evaded his grasp.

"I'm unsure," he said, slowly. "I... dislike her vindictive streak. She's clearly prepared to cause deep emotional injury without a pause."

"Do you fear she'll injure _you?"_ Ananya asked.

Something stirred in Mycroft's chest. "No," he murmured, confused. "No, I..."

Ananya didn't speak.

In the silence, the answer unfolded.

"Him," Mycroft said at last. He exhaled, feeling his chest ache. "She's... wholly prepared to... for the rest of his life. And he has no idea. Her _viciousness._ How little respect or regard she has for him. I find myself oddly protective of him."

His fingers twitched; more words came.

"Greg Lestrade seems very compassionate. Very aware. Very accommodating. He's reluctant to inconvenience others with his thoughts and emotions. Chides himself for doing so. The middle child in a large family, now a police officer."

"A police officer?"

"A detective." Mycroft opened his eyes. Ananya was gazing down at him, troubled. "I noted the same thing."

The corner of her mouth pulled. "She feels safe," she murmured, "knowing she can fool even him."

Mycroft exhaled through his mouth.

"Mm. In truth, Helen Lestrade hasn't any need of a sex therapist. The woman needs a _family_ therapist and a number of illuminating conversations about her father, not a pamphlet about her erogenous zones. Heaven knows she's already familiar enough with those."

Anaya tilted her head.

"Quite possible," she said. She brushed the dark veil of her hair behind one ear, gold bangles stirring together around her slender wrist. "Would it be beneficial to transfer her to my care?" she suggested. "You'd feel less caught between them."

Mycroft considered, thinking quickly. Where possible, he preferred to treat couples as a couple. Hearing both sides of the story made it easier to merge them. But in this instance, there might be sense in departing from it. Helen Lestrade's choices were rooted in buried pain, and Ananya would be far more capable of finding and healing that pain. It would give Helen a therapist of her own, too, a confidante who had only her welfare in mind. She'd already shown serious reservations about sharing Mycroft with her husband. She'd feared from the start that he would take Greg's side.

Perhaps she could sense Mycroft's instinctive irritation towards her; perhaps she could sense his natural compassion for Greg.

Either way, she would be far safer in Ananya's hands.

_And I can focus on him. Bolster his self-worth. Give the man an emotional outlet. Ascertain why it is he stays with a spouse whose contempt for him is unconcealed. There must be a reason._

Hope might not yet be lost.

Gazing up at Ananya, Mycroft's heart gave a tug. "You are utterly indispensable," he murmured. "I hope you're well aware."

The corners of her mouth curved upwards. 

"It's not a problem," she murmured. "Can I suggest they don't share an appointment time? Different days, perhaps? More focus on individual growth."

"Yes. Highly sensible."

"Send me her details," Ananya said. "I'll find a space in my diary."

Mycroft's stomach rose quietly beneath his hands. "Ananya, you are a miracle in human form."

"We both work miracles, Mycroft," she said. "I'm sure that between us we'll manage this one too."

Mycroft huffed, closing his eyes. It was true that the years had thrown up their fair share of hopeless cases. Miracles were sometimes only a single honest conversation away. He might not have had such a visceral reaction to a client in some time, but Helen Lestrade was no longer his concern. His duty of care could gather around Greg.

"May I ask something candid?" Ananya murmured.

Mycroft opened with eyes with a blink. "Mm?"

She held his gaze, her expression quite gentle. "Are you jealous?" she asked.

Mycroft took a moment to process the question, disarmed. 

"Jealous?" he said. He watched Ananya bite the corner of her lip. 

"Of her," she said.

The slight hitch in Mycroft's pulse was interesting, and not entirely welcome. 

"I don't believe so," he said at last. "He's... quite a catch, I'm sure, but..."

"Several lovers?" Ananya noted. "And she seems ungrateful of what she has? Water, water everywhere." She raised one delicate eyebrow. "How's your dry spell, Mycroft?"

_Oh!_

Mycroft's stomach squeezed. For a moment, he'd almost thought—

"I see." He gave Ananya a reluctant look. "Ah, it's... still rather arid."

"What happened with the one last Friday?"

"Met for coffee," Mycroft said, with a sigh. "Using a rather dated photograph on his profile, it transpires, but I put it aside. He was tolerable enough until he discovered I'm a 'marriage counsellor', then immediately began a blow by blow account of his recent separation, hoping to be given some sort of professional verification that he wasn't at fault in any way whatsoever. Showing me their arguments on Facebook Messenger. Asking if I'd diagnose sociopathy. He'd read about it on the internet."

"Have you invoiced him?"

Mycroft snorted. "Deleted and blocked," he said. "The dry spell continues." 

He sighed, stretching a little on the couch. 

"Is it so much for me to expect that in the entirety of London, there is at least _one_ intelligent and considerate man of reasonable personal hygiene who'd be so good as to take me for dinner and then throw me over something?"

Ananya's eyes twinkled. "And not show up on the second date with his mother to meet you?"

Mycroft winced. "You promised we wouldn't discuss Geoffrey again."

"Does his mother still text you?"

"Eh. Less frequently now."

"What happened with Andre?"

"Andre?"

"Andre who you met at Waitrose."

"Oh. _Andre._ Heaven help me. No, he kept trying to impress me. Wouldn't listen when I said normal intercourse was perfectly fine and there was no need for creativity. Worried I was taking notes on his performance. He couldn't see past it."

 _"Were_ you taking notes?"

Mycroft gave her a fond frown. "No," he murmured. "Just trying to spend time with him. To... feel close to the wretched man for a while."

Ananya's eyes softened for him, sad. 

"And so you're calling yourself a marriage counsellor now?" she said.

Mycroft restrained a sigh. 

"Perhaps I should tell the next one I'm a plumber," he said. "Far less likely to prompt bizarre behaviour."

"Is this why Mrs Lestrade unsettles you?" Ananya asked.

Mycroft supposed he couldn't dismiss the possibility. He contemplated it in silence as Ananya watched over him, remembering the gleam in Helen Lestrade's eye each time she'd thought about her lover, then the bored disregard with which she'd discussed her loving husband. Greg Lestrade was attractive, attentive and willing. Anyone would surely be delighted to have him. His wife seemed to value their marriage purely as proof of how little affection she could train a man to subsist on.

Mycroft meanwhile hadn't been in someone else's bedroom in what felt like decades. It was even longer since he'd had anything even close to a stable boyfriend. _A sex therapist who can't seem to get laid._ He'd been pondering a sitcom. It would keep him busy in the evenings at least.

As he gazed up at Ananya's ceiling, he wondered dimly if it was true—if his emotional response to Helen Lestrade could truly be rooted in something as petty as wanting what she had. This very evening, if she wished, she could pull a very handsome and loving husband into bed with her. No doubt his appreciation would be expressed in a number of ways. The thought made Mycroft's stomach flip. He'd never had the pleasure of married sex, but he'd had a handful of long-term partners. He missed the comfort of those kinds of bonds. He missed the reassurance that the softer human cravings of his soul would always be soothed before they reached the point of starvation.

He missed it very much.

Helen Lestrade was treating his every dream as if it were a nuisance. As if it were nothing. As if the only joy to be found was in violating it. 

With a reluctant twist of his mouth, Mycroft admitted to himself that some degree of envy might be at work. _But then,_ he mentally added on his outbreath, he spent his days guiding lost souls back to a fulfilling sex life. He never resented them for it. Nothing made him happier than seeing unhappy people bloom under his care.

He looked up at Ananya, giving her a quietly helpless expression. 

"She will unsettle you too," he warned. "She's an unsettling woman. Whether I'm slumping into circumstantial celibacy or not is beside the point."

Anaya merely smiled, listening.

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. 

"I quite realise what that look means," he said. "I too am a therapist."

"You are a terrible client," Ananya told him, amused. "You think far too much. You're always five steps ahead, trying to fix yourself. One day you'll let yourself simply listen."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth upturned. 

"God forbid," he said, fondly. "Think of the mess I'd then have to deal with."

*

In his kitchen that evening, while keeping an eye on a pot of caponata, Mycroft poured himself a glass of pinot grigio and settled at the breakfast bar with a stack of his preferred genre of literature: his own diligent notes on other people's sex lives. This was a task he completed at least once a week, more often if he'd had a batch of new patients. He did it in order to prepare for future appointments, most importantly with people who might not have taken clear shape in his mind yet. The worst possible blunder would be to mistake one new client's needs for another's. His initial appointment questionnaires formed a vital part of these notes, and the things either concealed or confided within them were a great help in ensuring errors were avoided. 

Before leaving the clinic for the night, he'd given Helen Lestrade's file to Ananya. Handing it over had felt like a supremely pointless gesture. The near-empty manilla folder had contained one single sorry document, her questionnaire—which itself offered next to nothing in terms of information. Looking back, it was frankly a miracle the woman had even deigned to write her name on the top, let alone anything that might give some glimpse into her soul.

 _A soul which is no longer my concern,_ Mycroft reminded himself with a sigh, reaching for his next set of notes. It was difficult not to take it as something of a failure. He very rarely had to refer a patient, and almost never at such an early stage in their treatment. When he woke up this morning, he wouldn't really have believed it of himself: reassigning a client to Ananya, all because he couldn't master his own rambunctious personal opinions. _Not my finest hour,_ he thought. _To put it mildly. The word 'pathetic' might spring to mind—as might 'unprofessional'—_

Noticing his train of thought, Mycroft stopped. He inhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and forced a reassessment.

 _I have not failed the woman,_ he told himself. _My instinctive dislike of her is wrongly colouring my own perception of my actions._ His childhood fear of being considered irresponsible was a tenacious beast when fed. In referring Helen Lestrade to Ananya, he'd done by far the most responsible thing that he could. It was not a punishment. He had not abandoned her. 

If anything, by retaining her as his own client—treating her as some professional challenge he must overcome—he would have let her down spectacularly. Helen Lestrade was not in therapy to provide a growth opportunity to Mycroft. She was there to save her marriage.

 _Or at least keep her claws in it,_ Mycroft thought. He lifted a weary hand, rubbing his fingertips into the side of his neck. The muscles there had knotted again. Briefly he imagined a pair of warm and heavy hands laying gently on his shoulders from behind, digging in and rubbing circles until he slumped over the breakfast bar and groaned. _Lord, what I'd give..._

In lieu of a helpful gentleman, Mycroft reached for wine.

It kept him company through the final half-inch in his stack of notes, dwindling steadily downwards through the glass until he reached the very bottom of the pile. He'd saved one particular document until last, suspecting he'd want to take his time with it. These nervously hand-written pages contained those things that Greg Lestrade would want the saviour of his marriage to know.

Mycroft, by the grace of god, was to be that very saviour.

Slowly he flipped through the notes. His heart sank at the sight of each new page. The poor fool really had filled out the entire thing, top to bottom, every box that he could, trying his hardest to show willingness and care.

 _As if this rests on you at all,_ Mycroft thought, scanning the text over the rim of his glass. _As if your emotional labour will make one scrap of difference, while she's still cavorting around with some..._

_Good lord, did I just use the word 'cavorting'?_

_Perhaps I need a long weekend somewhere._

Pressing himself to concentrate, Mycroft turned to page one and began.

Within a few paragraphs, Lestrade's notes seemed to have conjured the man himself. He became as present in the room as if he were now leaning in Mycroft's kitchen door, chatting away with that friendly and embarrassed grin of his. The questionnaire was littered with little asides in brackets, nervous exclamation marks and hopeful smiley faces. Each one only made Mycroft's heart thump harder. None of the contents seemed unexpected; nothing stood out as surprising. Lestrade was generally very happy with his life, quick to count his blessings, and so open-hearted it soon hurt to read. He offered up his thoughts and his emotions with near-desperate generosity.

Mycroft found himself thinking painfully of a shelter dog, paws up at the front of its pen, trying with all its might to seem friendly, happy and unafraid.

Greg Lestrade was as warm and likeable in words as he was in person. It made no difference. The poor man wanted to rebuild paradise on the side of a smoking volcano. He was willing to give his all in order to achieve that, no secrets kept, no corner of his soul saved just for himself. He hadn't the slightest idea how vulnerable it made him.

Sighing, Mycroft pushed his fingertips beneath his glasses. He rubbed very hard at his aching eyes. 

_I cannot control the wife's decisions. I cannot force her to end the affair. Whether she does or not is now beyond my knowing._

_All I can do is support._

He rather wished he'd never met Helen Lestrade. 

He wished she hadn't chosen him to receive her smug little confession. She'd enjoyed every moment of it. She'd made him a witness to her cleverness and her wickedness, knowing he'd then be helpless to stop her. Mycroft had been added to Helen Lestrade's prize collection of beaten men, and if she knew he was still thinking about her now, haunted by her hours later, she'd no doubt be delighted.

Laying his hands fully across his face, Mycroft took a moment to quieten himself.

 _Ananya will deal with her,_ he murmured, listening to the beating of his heart start to slow. _I'll proceed as if I simply never met her. Start afresh. Focus on only what the client tells me._

He poured himself another glass of wine, gave his caponata a brief stir, then returned to Greg's notes.

Page three consisted of a large freeform box, for clients to detail how their feelings on sex had changed throughout their lives. Greg had obediently filled the space: great interest as a teenager _("no surprise!"_ he'd put with a smile in the margin); loss of virginity aged fifteen at a party _("bit of a let down for all involved...")_ and then a vague disinterest for the rest of his teenage years _("better things to think about, exams etc etc")._

Halfway down the page, as the story reached Greg's young adulthood, Mycroft's mouth fell gently open.

He read the entire section again, just to be certain he'd understood.

_Kind of busy in my 20s if I'm honest. (Maybe too busy!!). Almost wondered about myself at one point (worked in a soho bar, long string of men/boyfriends)... came to an end when I joined the police (professional worries etc). No regrets. Only young once._

A slow prickle crossed the back of Mycroft's neck. He didn't know why that quiet and understated confession seemed to dull the sound of traffic on the street outside. It left the silence somehow heavier and thicker all around him. 

Thinking about it, he supposed he could make a fair guess as to why. A twenty-year-old Greg Lestrade working at a bar somewhere in Soho, indulging himself happily with other men... that kind of reliable, playful closeness was all Mycroft wanted in the world. 

_Simple jealousy,_ he told himself, ignoring the fact that he didn't hate the man for it in the least. _I merely want what he once had._

He hoped Greg had enjoyed those days in his life. He also hoped that it was true: _no regrets._

Mycroft drained the last of his wine in one mouthful, took the glass to the dishwasher and opened the kitchen window a crack, wondering when it had become so stuffy in here. 

_Some degree of same sex attraction and experience then,_ he concluded, cool and clinical once more as he heated up a frying pan to toast some almonds. _Not necessarily important. Perhaps of relevance in later sessions._ He wondered if Mrs Lestrade knew. He had a peculiar instinct that she didn't—and that she wouldn't be too pleased to hear it.

 _A part of his life you have no place in,_ Mycroft thought, removing his caponata from the heat. Her face swam before him, smirking and pretty. _A piece of the poor man's soul not subject to your dominion._

It was comforting to discover there _was_ at least one piece.

And if Mycroft was half the therapist he believed himself to be, he would return several more of those pieces to their rightful owner before he and Greg Lestrade parted ways.


	6. More of a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *adjusts Amateur Sex Therapist glasses* 
> 
> There are several instances of serious emotional abuse in this chapter. Helen's treatment of Greg is not good in any way, and I've added some new tags to reflect that. I don't want to trivialise these important real life issues, so I'm not going to breeze over them or magic it all away in two chapters.
> 
> But I repeat to you all my absolute promise that where this story hurts, there will be healing. <3

Greg hoped the weekly grocery shop might settle things—lay a fire blanket over this afternoon, cool any heat spots before they could flare. Five hours had passed since they left Dr Holmes's office. It was three hours since Helen got home, and she was showing signs of smoke: tense silences, texting furiously, leaving half her evening meal untouched. With any luck, some quiet domesticity at the supermarket would quench an argument before it could kick off.

Sadly, and in keeping with the rest of his life, Greg wasn't going to get that lucky.

"Get anything nice at the shops?" he asked, as he pulled their car out of the drive. Helen was hunched beside him in the passenger seat, tapping at a jewel-matching game on her phone. Her Pandora bracelet jingled beneath the sleeve of her coat.

"Not really," she grunted.

She'd come home with four enormous bags. 

Deciding it wasn't worth the risk, Greg changed topic. "Might have to start shopping for Christmas soon," he said. "December in a couple of weeks."

Helen said nothing, tapping.

"Lisa says we're welcome," he added. "Round with her and Ed. If you're still in two minds about Dorset, I mean."

Helen tutted. "Oh, good," she said. "Just what I want for Christmas. Endless board games with screaming children."

Greg bit the side of his tongue. The children in question were his nieces and nephews; Helen's definition of screaming covered everything from talking excitedly to laughing. 

"D'you want to go to Dorset, then?" he asked.

"I haven't decided."

"There's always your mum's, if you'd rather sp—"

"She won't be here," Helen said. "Carlos is taking her to the Caribbean to recover after her boob job. They're going on a cruise." She cast Greg a dark look from beneath her eyelashes. "He got a bonus for reducing his staffing costs this year."

_ For firing a load of people. _ "Oh," Greg said. "Right. Well, that'll be nice for them. Get some sun."

Helen said nothing, exhaling as she returned to her game.

"What about your dad?" Greg asked the silence. "Where's he gonna be for Christmas?"

"Some spa in the Lake District," Helen muttered. Her lip curled; she tapped the screen harder. "With  _ Felicity." _

Helen's third stepmother was four years younger than her. The wedding back in April had been the single most gruelling experience of Greg's life, even counting the occasion when he'd been stabbed by an escaping murder suspect. Frankly, a switchblade to the kidney would have been a welcome addition to the day. It wasn't often  _ you may now kiss the bride  _ was followed by a lavish display of tongues for all to enjoy. Their first dance had been to Marvin Gaye's  _ Let's Get It On.  _ It was a miracle Greg had escaped the ordeal with any libido intact whatsoever.

Weirdly, the shared horror of the experience had bonded him and Helen together for a while. It seemed to have bought them a month of extra time, at least.

_ Almost a shame they're busy for Christmas,  _ Greg thought—then realised with a lurch this was the price he was now willing to pay. Christmas Day as a captive audience to George and Felicity, in the hope that shared trauma would feel a bit like closeness.

_ Christ almighty, how did it come to this? _

"Well," he said, filling the quiet, "if you decide you fancy Dorset, we can do what we want at least. Just the two of us. Have a quiet one."

Helen made no comment, locking her phone and slipping it away inside her handbag.

Greg let the silence carry them on through a few sets of traffic lights. When things got like this, he never knew if Helen wanted him to show extra willingness or simply just give up. It was impossible to tell from outside of her head. But giving up, surrendering to empty silence, seemed like the fastest route to a loveless marriage. He didn't want to become one of those couples who filled a supermarket trolley each week without a word or even a glance at each other, then drove home side by side like utter strangers.

"What d'you want to do for our anniversary?" he asked. A thin rain had begun, speckling quietly across the windshield. "Go out for a meal, maybe?"

He glanced across in time to see Helen poke her tongue into her cheek. She gazed ahead through the windshield into the traffic, no emotion in her eyes. 

"Fine," she said.

Greg's head translated immediately. He didn't know much, but he knew what  _ fine  _ meant. It meant,  _ this is in no way whatsoever fine. _ It tightened all his veins a little, warning him to tread very carefully. In which direction, he couldn't begin to guess. 

"Is there anywhere you fancy?" he tried. "Somewhere special?"

Helen tutted. "Why not just take me to McDonalds for a burger, Greg, and have done with it?"

_ Right.  _ "Something more special than a meal, then?"

Helen said nothing, silently shaking her head in disbelief.

"'Cause... well, if you want to go away," Greg said, "Christmas is only a couple of weeks after that. Dorset, maybe. If we're away for our anniversary, then we're away again f—"

"Fine!" Helen snapped. "We'll go for a meal! Jesus. Just book somewhere, Greg. You always make such a fucking fuss."

The silence folded back around them. For a while they simply drove, the car dark and empty around them, full of thoughts.

Searching through his head for conversation topics, Greg could only really think of one. It was a risk, asking. Then, he'd have to ask sooner or later. She couldn't go too wild right now or he'd crash the car. Maybe that made it the best opportunity.

"What, erm..." He took another breath, telling himself to get on with it. "What do you think of Dr Holmes?"

Helen didn't answer for nearly a full minute. She sat up a little in her seat, brushing her hair back over her shoulder.

"I think he's a condescending prick," she said. "I think he loves himself to pieces and it shows." She turned her head away from Greg, gazing at the other cars. "And I think he needs to learn to keep his eyes to himself, frankly."

Greg's forehead furrowed. "What d'you mean?"

Helen swirled her tongue around her cheek. "I mean he wouldn't stop sneaking a look at my  _ tits, _ Greg. That's what I mean."

Greg took a few moments to summon up the courage.

"I... sort of got the impression he was gay, to be honest." As they pulled up at another set of traffic lights, he risked a moment's eye contact. "Are you sure he wasn't just... y'know, chatting?"

Helen snorted. "Do you even  _ know _ any gay men?" she asked.

_ Not anymore.  _ "No," Greg said, "but—"

"I do," she interrupted. "And he's not. He's just creepy, Greg. There's a difference."

"Who d'you know who's gay?"

"Franco."

"Who's Franco?"

"He works at the salon with Linda. Can't even sweep up without making a bloody song and dance out of it. Wiggling around. Glittery t-shirt and skinny jeans." Helen sighed, checking the tips of her nails. "I don't care what they all get up to in private," she added. "It's none of  _ my _ business. I just don't want it rammed down my throat, thanks very much."

Greg quietly gripped the steering wheel, saying nothing.  _ If he's gay, babe, he probably wouldn't want to ram anything down your throat. _

The silence gathered in again like fog.

"You liked him then, did you?" Helen asked, as the traffic set off. 

It took Greg a moment to wind back through the conversation. "Dr Holmes?"

"Mmh," she said, and sneered.  _ "Dr Holmes." _

Greg shrugged, trying to keep the truth of it off his face.  _ I thought he was great _ would go down like a lead balloon.

"Seemed alright," he said, vaguely. "Hard to tell, first meeting."

Helen huffed. "Told him all about your sad lonely childhood, did you?"

Greg silently declined to let it hurt. They used to talk about things like that, back at the start. Helen's childhood had been spent on the battlefield of her parents' divorce; she'd had it much harder than him. She'd let him talk, though. She'd let him tell her things.

Those days seemed an awfully long time ago now.

"I didn't have a sad childhood," he said, keeping an eye on a nearby van. "And no. We just... chatted, I guess. General introductions."

Helen continued to examine her cuticles, bored.

As Greg began to hope that might be it—the subject opened, addressed and put to rest—she spoke again.

"I don't think it's right," she said. She tipped her face sideways to watch his reaction. He could feel her eyes fixed on the side of his head, pressing, drilling. "A man, I mean. Doing that. I never would've agreed to go if you'd told me it would be a man."

"Why?" Greg asked, confused. "What's weird about him being a man?"

"Because you're perverts," Helen replied, as if it were obvious. "All of you. You're sex-obsessed. You don't think properly. You turn thirteen and your brain relocates to your dick. That's why."

Greg swiftly put aside the various things a braver man might have chosen to mention: her gleeful addiction to  _ Sex and the City, _ her hunky firemen calendar on the pinboard in the kitchen, the first year of their relationship when she'd never missed an opportunity to pull his jeans open and climb into his lap. There was a time Helen had told him things and done things to him that now made his head spin. Sitting here, it felt like those memories couldn't possibly be his. He must have borrowed them from a friend, put them on a shelf somewhere then forgotten to return them to their rightful owner. They were now boxed up in the spare room of his brain, always there but never opened.

Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to realise Helen was talking again.

"—bloody suspicious, frankly. A man who wants to spend all day hearing about people's sex lives? I'd like to know what he gets out of it."

Carefully, Greg bit the side of his tongue. "He probably gets a decent salary out of it, love."

Helen didn't miss a blink. Her head snapped around. 

"What the hell would  _ you  _ know about decent salaries?" she demanded.

_ Jesus.  _ "Hel," Greg tried, gently. "Babe... let's not g—"

"And," she burst over him, half-shouting, as Greg gathered his hands tight around the wheel and tried to concentrate on the traffic, "Mr Know-it-All. Mr Bloody Expert on Everything in the Whole Bloody World. If they wouldn't expect me to try clothes on in a shop in front of a man, if they wouldn't expect me to piss next to a man, then why would they expect me to tell some stuck-up ginger pervert all about my private business? Mm?"

Greg proceeded with the greatest of caution.

"He's just a doctor, babe," he said, as reassuringly as he could. "Men deliver babies, don't they? Men are gynecologists. It's just a specialism he's ch—"

"That's  _ totally _ fucking different," she snapped, "and you  _ know _ it is. Christ, Greg. You treat me as if I'm thick as pig shit sometimes."

Greg forced himself to breathe it out, not to question her. He'd learned long ago not to tip them into spirals of  _ no I don't, yes you do,  _ not unless he wanted to live in the spiral for several days.

"If you don't want to go back," he said instead, calm and easy, "that's fine. Nobody'll force you. But I think he—"

"I'm not going back," Helen said, fiercely. "You can get that straight out of your head."

"Alright," Greg said. "No worries. I'm not saying for a second that y—"

"Don't you even  _ dare _ try bullying me back through that door, Greg Lestrade. So some beaky-nosed pervert can peer over his glasses and order me to spread my legs for you."

Greg's stomach twisted. He wished to god she wouldn't put it that way. It made him feel like a fucking monster.

"Fine," he said, inhaling. "That's fine, love. Don't go back." Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he gathered up the last sorry scraps of his courage. "But I'm going."

Helen's jaw dropped.

_ "Why?" _ she demanded, as Greg peeled them at last towards the entrance of the supermarket car park. His head was aching. He wished he'd taken painkillers before they left the house. "So he can give you little tips on how to break me down? Is that it? And you can tell him all the dirty details when you succeed? You're a fucking idiot."

"No," Greg said, his knuckles whitening. "So I can—" 

_ Have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't think I'm just a wanker and a waste of space.  _

"—look, it's... therapy's good for you. Lisa says it did her and Ed more good than anyth—"

_ "Lisa says,"  _ Helen parroted, pitched and whining.  _ "Lisa says get therapy. Lisa says stand up. Lisa says jump off a bridge." _

Greg fixed his eyes on the empty space he'd spotted across the car park, keeping his jaw locked shut.

"You're wasting our money," Helen went on. "No money for a decent holiday, but somehow you can piss it all up the wall on therapy? That's a laugh."

Greg did not comment. She hadn't worked since just after the wedding. There'd been a big argument with her old boss. While she'd not been officially fired, she'd been strongly encouraged to find herself another job. Greg's wage was the only one they had now. He'd once dared to suggest that two incomes would improve their finances faster than him relying on overtime. It had triggered a meltdown of cosmological proportions. The echoes of Helen's screams could still be heard in some corners of their street.

"What are you even expecting him to do?" she demanded, as Greg backed the car slowly into the space. "Just listen to you cry every week? You do realise this is making you the exact opposite of attractive to me?"

Though Greg pressed his teeth into his tongue, the words came out all the same. "What  _ would _ make me attractive?"

Helen faltered, startled into a second's silence. 

"What would make you attractive?" she repeated, playing for time as Greg switched off the engine and unlocked the doors. His hands were shaking. "Well—Jesus, Greg.  _ I _ don't know. Maybe you could try making some  _ bloody effort _ for once?"

"And do what?" Greg asked. He couldn't believe his own daring. It was too late to stop, though. This was happening. "I'll make the effort, Hel," he said. "I  _ want _ to. Honest to god. Just tell me what you want me to do, what you want me to be, and I'll move mountains. Please, just... just spell it out for me. Help me fix this."

Helen stared at him for what felt like an eternity, her eyes sharp, her expression pale and disarmed. She held her handbag as tightly as if worried he'd snatch it, leap out of the car and run.

At last, her upper lip curled. Disgust flashed through her eyes.

"I shouldn't have to tell you," she said, "how to make me happy. If you actually cared about me, you'd just know."

Greg's heart strained. 

"I do care," he said. "Christ, Hel. I know I'm slow sometimes. I know I'm hopeless and I need things flagging up in bright yellow. But it doesn't mean I don't care."

He watched, distressed, as Helen rolled her eyes.

"Just try being a man for once, will you?" she tutted, shoving open the door.

"What does that mean?" Greg said. She turned her legs out of the car, ignoring him. "What would I be doing different, if I was more of a man? Please, Helen. Just tell me what I'm doing wr—"

She slammed the door.

The silence ached around Greg, empty and cold.

He pushed his tongue into his cheek. He lowered his eyes to her vacant seat and shut them, breathing back the rush of anger and despair. He couldn't start opening all this up in a supermarket car park. This wasn't the place. This wasn't the time.

_ Therapy'll help,  _ he told himself. He gripped his car keys to ease the trembling of his hands. Dr Holmes would see things he couldn't. He'd find some way to break it to Greg gently, point the problem out, get him sorted.

_ Christ, I... I try, though, don't I? _

_ I fucking try.  _

Helen wrenched open the door. Greg's head snapped up at once, his distress shrinking back inside his skin, hidden away in an instant.

"Are you actually coming?" she barked. "I'm standing out here in the rain, you selfish pig."

Before Greg could speak, she slammed the door a second time.

His jaw locked. He took one more deep breath, forced himself out of the car and opened up the boot, thinking with silent longing as he did of that quiet and comfortable office, the voice which let him finish his sentences, the pebble-grey eyes which warmed as he smiled.  _ It'll be fine,  _ he told himself.  _ It'll all be okay. I got help. I did the right thing. _

"When exactly are you planning on having these 'therapy sessions' anyway?" Helen demanded loudly. A couple passing with their trolley glanced over in surprise. Greg avoided their gazes, keeping his head down and his shoulders high as he retrieved the reusable bags from the boot. "I hope you've not asked work for time off," Helen went on. "The last thing we need is your boss thinking you're turning into one of those lazy mental health problem tossers. Always dancing off early and ringing in sick."

"I asked for an evening slot," Greg said. "Can you just hold these a second?"

"How often?" Helen demanded, ignoring the bags he held out. "You'd better not think you're going weekly."

Something cracked. Greg felt it snap somewhere deep in his throat. The words came out. 

"You can cope without me for one night a week, can't you?" he said. "I'll just go when you're out at Zumba. What's wrong with that?"

Helen's eyes flashed wildly. "And could you maybe have  _ asked  _ if I was alright with it?"

"You never asked me about Zumba," Greg said.

"I didn't  _ ask you  _ about  _ Zumba,"  _ Helen replied, flushing angrily, "because I don't need your permission to do things with my  _ life, _ you bloody neanderthal! This isn't the nineteen-fucking-forties and I'm not a—"

"Then I'm not asking permission either," Greg burst out. Helen stuttered into silence, shocked. "I'm going to therapy," he said, even as a passing family turned to stare, even as Helen glanced nervously towards them. His chest heaved. "Right? And I'm going weekly. And if you want to come with me then you're welcome, and I think it'd be good for us. For us both. For our marriage. But I don't expect you to be there, and I'm not gonna mention it again."

He shut the boot, locked the car, and moved away towards the trolley park.

Beneath the rainy shelter, he took a few minutes just to breathe. They had an entire grocery shop to get through now. He wasn't doing himself any favours, trying to lay down the law to her. She'd only find some way to punish him for it.

It was getting so hard to hold his peace, though. 

At first, they'd only ever argued about specific things. Some of their happiest times had been making up after a daft misunderstanding. These days, they argued about everything. They didn't really seem to make up anymore, just give up in exhaustion and forget about it for now.

He almost wished Dr Holmes had been a prick or a weirdo. Then he could have given up on therapy, too.

It felt weird, standing his ground. It felt like it wouldn't end well.

Helen was waiting inside the supermarket entrance as he arrived with the trolley. Her phone was in her hand, her lips tightly pressed. Spotting Greg, her gaze fixed hard upon his face. She made her way over.

Greg braced himself for impact. All the muscles in his shoulders tightened, his pulse kicking up at once. He half-expected her to slap him right here in front of everyone, and he'd probably only have himself to blame.

Instead, Helen simply smiled. It was a hard, cold smile. It poured ice down Greg's back.

She sidled up close to him, lifting her mouth to his ear. Greg went still.

"You know that's abusive," she murmured. "What you did just then? Storming off because I'm not saying what you want."

Greg's heart clenched. Her mouth brushed his ear as she spoke. 

"It's called  _ emotional withholding,"  _ she said, shaping each syllable to perfection. "I read about it, last time I was at the hairdresser's. It's what manipulative men do to control their wives."

She struck his hands off the trolley, then wrenched it away him.

"You should tell your precious Dr Holmes all about that," she hissed. "Next time you pop in for a gossip. See if he thinks you're so good and wonderful then."

Greg's throat gripped. 

"H-Hel," he managed. "Love—m'sorry I—"

Helen swept her hair over her shoulder. She clicked away, her head high, her hips swaying as she went.

*

After twenty minutes of shopping in painful silence, with the trolley barely half full, Helen got a text message. She read it with a dulled expression, replied at once, then locked her phone and returned it to her bag.

"I'm going to visit my sister when we're done," she said. "I can't deal with you when you're in a mood like this."

Quiet relief flooded through Greg's chest. In its wake came another thought, guilty and comforting at once. Thinking of Dr Holmes, Greg gripped his car keys in his pocket and let himself be comforted.

"Alright," he said. "Shall I drop you off on the way back? I can put the shopping away."

Helen surveyed him with a look of disbelief. Slowly, she shook her head.

"You're not even going to try and make me stay. Are you?" she asked. "Let alone apologise. Why would I even hope?"

_ Please go to your sister's. Please. _

"If you want to stay home," Greg said, "then don't feel like you have to go out."

Helen's eyes widened. "Are you now granting me permission to return to my own house?" she asked. "Is that what's actually happening here?"

"No, love. I'm just saying if you want to go out, then it's fine. If you don't, it's fine. Whatever you want to do, I don't mind."

"Please don't attempt to patronise me, Greg. It won't work. And no, I don't want a lift. I know what you'll expect in return. I'm getting an Uber."

"An Uber'll cost a f—... no, fine," Greg said, inhaling. "That's fine." His stomach squeezed. He'd pay for this dearly, but it might keep her at her sister's all night. He could have the house to himself, have some space and some silence. Paying for it tomorrow didn't seem so bad. "Why don't you just head off?" he suggested. "Leave me with this. I'll handle it."

Helen fixed him with her eyes again, furiously scanning his face. 

Greg waited, too tired now to care what she saw.

"Maybe I will," Helen said. Her jaw hardened. "Maybe I  _ will  _ just go now. Mm? Leave you here with whatever new game this is."

She wrenched open her handbag, retrieving her phone. The dangly crystal charm on it whirled wildly.

"My sister thinks you're psychotic," she said, tapping at the screen. "You know that? She thinks you're a mess." She hit call. "And I'm starting to think she's right."

She turned away from him, storming off along the aisle as she pressed the phone to her ear.

Greg watched her go.

He wished he could feel something other than relief. A few months ago, he might have run after her, calling her name, playing the only role it made sense for him to take in these scenes she set up.

_ Is that what she means?  _ he wondered, as she strode out of sight around a corner, gone from him without a backwards glance.  _ Being more of a man?  _

He was nearly forty-five. He'd thought marriage would mean they could finish with all that. They could settle down instead, have quiet conversations as they shopped for groceries together. He didn't want to chase her through the supermarket. He didn't want to guiltily watch her go, relieved that at least he could be alone now.

Glancing down into their trolley, Greg felt his heart pull.

_ It's not meant to be like this,  _ he thought. Guilty comfort was already spreading beneath his skin, comfort that she was gone. He didn't have to watch his every word. He could just buy food and drive it home, put it away at his own pace, then run a quiet shower. He could look after himself. He could breathe.  _ Jesus, I shouldn't feel like this. I shouldn't be this callous. I shouldn't be this pathetic. _

_ Holy fuck, she's right. Isn't she? _

_ I am a fucking mess. _

*

It felt like foreplay somehow—numbly unpacking groceries by himself, placing them safely into cupboards. The whole house was empty and warm. Greg felt the silence hugging him, gently settling him, and he poured himself a glass of red wine with some strange and nervous sense that he deserved it.  _ Who gives a fuck?  _ he thought, drinking it with a shaking hand, smoking while staring at their black and empty garden from the back doorstep.  _ Who gives a fuck what I do when I'm alone?  _ He didn't even bother pretending to watch TV for a while. He knew what he wanted; he knew what he'd thought about all the way home, numb and pale and staring into the traffic. He locked the door, still shaking, extinguished his cigarette and turned the lights out downstairs.  _ Come to bed,  _ the quiet seemed to murmur.  _ It's just us.  _ Greg let it guide him gently up the stairs.

Usually this time was stolen. A few minutes in the shower, making not a sound in case Helen overheard. He'd become pathetically good at quick and nervous orgasms. That wasn't what he wanted this time.  _ My time,  _ he thought, aching as he waited for the shower to warm up, standing naked by the loo where he couldn't glimpse himself by accident in the mirror. Phrases from Dr Holmes's pamphlet kept drifting through his mind, phrases like  _ perfectly normal, safe and healthy, good for psychological wellbeing.  _ Greg held onto them tight. He gathered them around himself, trying to let them cover up his dignity. He knew all too well the truth of this situation. He was a wanker, by the facts. He was pathetic and it hurt.

_ Doesn't matter,  _ he told himself, his throat pulling tight. He stepped up into the shower in silence.  _ Doesn't matter when I'm alone.  _ The spray rushed over his skin, warm and gentle, and he leant against the wall to let it stroke his aching back for him. It didn't matter that he was shaking; it didn't matter that this hurt.  _ Let me be a wanker, then. Who gives a fuck? If I want to be a wanker, that's alright. Nobody knows. _

He'd become so tragic, these last few weeks. He'd started craving more than orgasm. He wished he  _ was  _ just an over-sexed tosser, having a crafty wank in the shower every night because he was a bit of a perve.

But he'd become something else now, something he didn't even have a word for.

Laying his forehead against the bathroom tiles, Greg let the heat overwhelm his eyes.

"Shhh..." he whispered to himself, soft and loving, and he hoped to god Dr Holmes never asked him about this. He couldn't bear putting this into words. He reached down his own body, nervously wrapping his trembling fingers around his cock and stroking, just slowly, just to soothe himself. "Shhh... shhh, it's okay... it's alright. It doesn't matter."

Misery and relief convulsed down his back, soothed by the raining water.

"It's alright," he murmured, his throat clenching. He breathed through it, guiding his thoughts back to the play of water along his cock, the brush of his own fingers,  _ safe, warm, just us.  _ "It's all alright. Just us here. You're okay."

He let it take time. Close, trembling, he even edged himself and murmured a little nervous praise, heat burning in his eyes again as he slowed his stroke and enjoyed just the trickle of the water and the sound of a human voice. He didn't care. Nobody was here. He was a weirdo, saying soft things to himself to relax enough to come, but it didn't matter so long as no one knew. Last week, when Helen was out at Zumba, he'd laid in bed and used his fingers as he half-fantasised he could somehow divide himself in two, like some sort of Jekyll and Hyde—look after himself, have someone to touch and fuck and feel close to without being unfaithful. He'd ended up gently groaning to himself, whispering he was good and he felt tight. He missed being young. He missed the warmth of laboured breath and stubble against his neck. He missed the days when sex made him feel playful and confident and free, not like crying and curling into a ball. Those days were gone.

But at least he had this: warm water like hands brushing down his back, gentle words, a voice and a touch he could trust. There were people out there who had it much worse. At least he was married. At least he had someone to be with, even if he fucked it up time and time again.

The hormone surge after climax came like a wrecking ball.

Greg let it take him down, too weak and too tired to stop the cortisol from streaming out of his eyes. He wrapped himself in a dry and fluffy towel he'd laid on the radiator beforehand, and in a strange whim sank down to the bathroom floor, leaned close to the hot pipes and stayed there for a while. The loneliness hurt, but warmth would do for now. Safety would do. In lieu of wrapping arms, the towel felt dry and soft. As he breathed, Greg imagined that protective second half of himself taking form and sitting here with him on the lino, cradling him close, running slow fingers through his damp hair, saying in his own voice against his forehead,  _ "S'alright, darlin'. You sit there as long as you need. M'right here."  _ He'd always hoped he could be that protective person for someone else. A good husband, a good lover. For a while, it had seemed like Helen wanted that from him.

It felt so strange, thinking about her.

She didn't have a clue he did this. She'd be sitting in her sister's living room right now, discussing over rosé how psychotic and unhinged he was. In fact he was here on the bathroom floor, sharing his raw-eyed afterglow with a towel, the gentle hiss of a radiator and the fantasy of being cuddled in his own arms. He didn't fantasise about Helen anymore. At first, he just hadn't dared. It felt wrong and weird, doing that to her. Time had now passed and the idea of her sitting here, stroking his hair, felt so alien and bizarre that Greg just couldn't sustain it. Every sexual fantasy in the world seemed more believable than that one, even splitting himself in two.

A tragic, childish longing for hot chocolate began to arise.

_ Fuck it,  _ Greg thought, comforted by his savagery on his own behalf.  _ I'll have what I want.  _ He found himself a pair of clean boxers and his dressing gown, went back downstairs into the darkness and made a hot chocolate, added nearly an inch of fuck-the-world marshmallows then took the mug quietly to bed.

It was almost ten o'clock as he settled down, too early to sleep. As he tapped the screen of his mobile to wake it, he almost expected to find angry voicemails. To his relief, there was nothing from Helen. Not yet at least.

He had texts from someone else, though.

Greg's heart thundered gently as he opened them.

_ [MH - 21:04] Hello Greg. It's Dr Holmes from the York Street Clinic. I've taken a look through my diary and I can offer you either Wednesday or Thursday evening each week at 7pm. Would one of those times be convenient? Let me know if not and I'll see if I can make other arrangements. - M _

_ [MH - 21:06] A colleague of mine who specialises in family therapy has contacted your wife to offer her a separate appointment. Hopefully we can work towards joint sessions at a pace which suits everyone. - M _

Greg reread the messages several times, wondering why Helen had been offered a different therapist—why not Dr Holmes. Ultimately it didn't matter. Helen wasn't going to take them up on it. They could offer her every single therapist in the building and she'd turn them down.

Greg checked the offered evenings again, his heart still beating hard. Thursday was Helen's Zumba day. She'd be out of the house until late that night. It would make sense if he spent that evening with Dr Holmes, so he and Helen could have Wednesday evenings together.

Greg glanced down at his hot chocolate. The corner of his mouth twitched.

_ [GL - 21:46] Hi Dr H, thanks for your message. Wednesdays would be great for me. _

_ I'm a crap husband,  _ he thought, but it was done now. Gazing down at the window, trying to figure out how to respond about Helen's appointment, he was surprised to spot the typing icon appear. 

He watched it bubble and hop. His stomach bubbled too.

_ [MH - 21:47] Wonderful. Then I look forward to seeing you next Wednesday (20th November). - M _

_ [MH - 21:48] If you have any questions in the mean time, you're more than welcome to send me a message on this number. I can't always reply immediately but I will aim to do so as soon as I can. - M _

Greg reached out a nervous hand for his hot chocolate. The marshmallows had melted into a layer of pink and white gloop. He shivered slightly as he drank it.

_ [GL - 21:49] Can I ask a quick one now? _

_ [MH - 21:49] Yes, of course. Go ahead. - M _

_ [GL - 21:52] What do therapists recommend for a good nights sleep? _

Dr Holmes's reply came at once. It made Greg smile.

_ [MH - 21:52] A warm bath or shower, a hot drink and an orgasm. Two out of three will do nicely. - M _

_ [GL - 21:54] Haha, thanks. I'll give it a go. See you wednesday :) _

The message reached its recipient and was seen. Two blue ticks appeared in comfortable silence underneath. 

Greg hesitated, wondering if that was it—if he should close the window now and get some sleep.

Dr Holmes began to type again.

_ [MH - 21:54] Goodnight Greg. Sleep well. - M. _

Something unwound itself slowly in Greg's chest. He felt it take a breath, oddly soothed by the sight of his own name in someone else's voice. Though they'd only met once, he could recreate that voice in his mind without effort: those gentle and easy tones, warmed with the softest touch of amusement. Dr Holmes talked as if every possible worry in the world could be dealt with, piece by piece, and all would be well.

Greg didn't meet a lot of gentle people. He was glad he'd met this one.

As he laid his head down to sleep, he wondered if Dr Holmes was married—if there was a gorgeous London flat somewhere, someone lying next to him right now, listening to that gentle voice say goodnight for real. He tried picturing a woman, a Mrs Holmes in a John Lewis nightie, stirring under Mycroft's familiar touch in the darkness. It didn't seem right. 

The thought of another man fit better. Someone in law or finance, Greg thought. A real catch, with a high-end Mercedes and a name like David or Roger. It would be Mycroft stirring in the darkness, dropping his head back into a cool white pillow, his composed and gentle voice now restless and undone. Softly panting. Pushing his partner's hands where he needed them.

Shifting beneath the sheets, Greg evicted the thoughts from his mind. 

_ Let's not go there,  _ he told himself.  _ That's the last bloody place we should go. _

He'd get used to the sex therapist thing within a week or two. Dr Holmes would work his magic, figure out where Greg was going wrong and help him fix it. With any luck, ten years from now on, he and Helen would be able to look back on this time of their lives and laugh. They'd be telling all their friends to get themselves to sex therapy.

_ "It'll change your life,"  _ they'd say.

It would all be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg (a Very Sad Bean) is unaware that self-talk while masturbating is 100% cool, incredibly common, and nothing to wory about whatsoever.
> 
> He's also unaware that Helen's treatment of him is 100% _not_ cool. It is very much abuse.
> 
> If you're affected by any of the issues in this fic, please be super kind to yourself and set up a chat with a professional. Mycroft's healing is on the way, and all the scary behaviour in this fic will be fully revealed for what it is, but we're not going to be getting there in a week.
> 
> Next chapter sees their first proper session together. <3 Stick around.


	7. Matchstick Houses

**Wednesday 20th November**

The threat of rain was hanging grey and heavy over London; the sky had barely lightened up all day. Greg had spent the afternoon at work in a state of faint dread, suspecting he'd have an argument on his hands when he got home. To his surprise, he'd walked in to find the house completely empty—no note, no signs, no texts on his phone. It looked as if Helen had disappeared for a while in order to punish him, or at the very least to make him feel guilty.

He'd decided while driving over that it was a mark of how much he needed to be here: his quiet guilt over his lack of guilt. He couldn't bring himself to feel any great deal of remorse, even if she was now angry or upset.

He just wanted to see Dr Holmes.

York Street seemed quiet as Greg let himself nervously through the key-coded front door of the clinic. He made his way up the creaky narrow staircase, strangely aware of his own breath. This had presumably been a home once, probably when Victoria still sat on the throne. It was one of those pretty four-storey terraces which Marylebone had in abundance, far roomier on the inside than they looked from the street. One of the building's previous owners had made the decision to preserve the original panelling and fittings, rather than stripping them out, and it gave the place a sort of cosy, pedigreed grandeur.  _ We know what we're doing here,  _ the flocked wallpaper seemed to promise. Greg knew he should be old enough and wise enough now to look beyond things like clever stage-dressing, but he couldn't deny that it helped. This felt like Dr Holmes's domain, just as put-together and reassuring as Dr Holmes himself. The silence here wasn't unsettling; it was warm.

The heavy door let out a little squeak as Greg stepped cautiously into the waiting room. The comfortable leather couches all sat empty, the magazines gathered into neat piles ready for morning. It looked like nobody was around. 

Greg glanced in nervous instinct towards the reception desk, and realised he'd been mistaken.

Dr Holmes smiled, laying aside his pen.

"Good evening," he said, and the knot in Greg's heart loosened in an instant. Mycroft looked just like he had last week, competent and calm and immaculately dressed, tonight in a pale-grey waistcoat with a white shirt underneath it. Behind his rectangular glasses, his eyes were bright and happy to see Greg. "You're pleasingly punctual," he noted, sitting back in the receptionist's chair.

Free from its knot, Greg's heart began to thump. He smiled, unable to help it.

"Sorry I'm a bit early," he said. "I didn't know what traffic would be like, this time of night. Turned out not as bad as I thought."

Mycroft's eyes sparkled.

"Quite alright," he said. "I'd normally have another client before you, but there was a cancellation. I took the time to clear some paperwork from my path."

Even his small talk was soothing, Greg thought. Just being in the room with him felt good. 

"Is it normally this quiet at night?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded, capping his fountain pen. 

"Evenings are always very restful," he said. "It makes it an excellent time to have an appointment. My colleagues tend to keep their hours before six, and our receptionist leaves at five, so it's also more private."

_ You came out here to wait for me,  _ Greg thought.  _ To be here when I arrived.  _

"How come you work late?" he said, watching Mycroft gather up his papers. "If everyone else goes home at six, I mean."

"I have a lot of working professionals among my clients. I've found that midweek evenings are more popular than weekend slots. More convenient to fit into busy schedules."

_ Less likely to have friends and family asking,  _ Greg thought. Being busy every Wednesday evening wouldn't attract attention in the same way as being busy every Saturday morning.

"Shall we?" Mycroft said, gesturing past the desk with a fond and easy smile. "You've avoided the rain at least."

As Mycroft held open the door of the office, Greg's veins seemed to ache just to be here. The lamps were all lit for the evening, bathing the whole room in a soft and gentle warmth. It was even nicer than he remembered. Clean, comfortable and cosy, the space had been decorated more like a tasteful lounge than a doctor's office. Every detail had been chosen to belong with all the others; everything matched and had its place. Walnut frames on the far wall held tasteful shots of London at night, while the couches beneath them looked as soft and inviting as freshly made beds.

If Mycroft had any hand in the look and feel of this room, the man's home was surely an artistic masterpiece. Greg was imagining Egyptian linen and a rain shower.

"I was about to make myself a drink," Mycroft said, smiling over his shoulder as he picked up the kettle. "Coffee? Tea?"

Greg's soul let out a small and needy groan. "Coffee would be amazing. Thanks."

"Wonderful," Mycroft said, bright-eyed. "I shan't be a minute."

He slipped out of the office. His footsteps moved away along the corridor, a soft click of leather soles on the hardwood floor.

Left to his own devices, Greg occupied himself with a cheeky look around.

Absent-mindedly reading the frames, he discovered that some of the photographs above the couches didn't feature London at all. They showed Edinburgh instead.  _ Where you studied,  _ Greg thought, smiling with his hands in his pockets. He admired the pictures one by one: Gothic spires, little winding alleys, a castle that seemed to have been hewn from the side of a mountain. Greg had never been, but he could imagine Mycroft there.  _ Museums and art galleries,  _ he thought.  _ Culture.  _ It seemed like a Holmesy sort of place. Greg's gaze strayed to the bookcase beside the couches, attracted at first by the heart-shaped leaves of a cheerful little ivy plant.

Only as he took a second look at some of the books did he realise what he was seeing.

"Cripes," he mumbled, startled, and tilted his head to one side.  _ Silk and Velvet: An Anthology of Lesbian Erotica. Lace and Leather: An Anthology of Lesbian Erotica Volume II.  _ As Greg continued along the shelf, his eyes bugged.  _ In My Hero's Arms,  _ another book breathed at him, and he couldn't resist. With a nervous glance towards the door, he eased the book free enough to have a peek at the cover.  _ Erotic tales of firefighters, police officers and soldiers.  _

_ Holy hell. _

Dr Holmes's returning footsteps dragged Greg's gaze away from the blurb. He slid the book quickly back into place, but had no time to step away.

Mycroft's eyes glittered as he found Greg over by the shelf. 

"All available to lend," he said genially.

Greg gave him a bashful grin. "Really?"

"We all need a little inspiration now and then." Mycroft placed the kettle on its stand, switching it on with a quiet click. "Fantasy is something I often have to introduce clients to," he explained, reaching for tea bags. "Or at least reassure them they're permitted to explore."

"And you do that with books?" Greg said. He wasn't sure he could look Mycroft in the eye and say the word erotica yet. Maybe after coffee he'd have the strength. "To get people thinking, right?"

"Quite so," Mycroft said. He prepared two cups as he spoke, one with a bag of earl grey tea, the other one with coffee for Greg. "You'd be surprised how many people never gave much thought to sex before they were settled into a monogamous marriage. Older ladies in particular. They might never have seen pornography, nor any other explicit material, nor felt comfortable discussing sex with someone other than their husband."

The kettle began to boil; Mycroft switched it off.

"So when asked to think about their own desires," he went on, as he filled each cup to the brim, "they simply don't know where to begin. They have no landmarks or clues by which they can locate their own intimate interests. Adult literature provides a very helpful starting point."

Greg supposed it made sense. He smiled a little, trying not to look with too much interest at the shelf.

"Good way to test things out?" he suggested. "See if you like it, sort of thing?"

"An excellent way," Mycroft remarked, smiling as he stirred Greg's coffee. "And, of course, not constrained by the limits of the human imagination."

"Yeah... yeah, I noticed the one about robots." Greg glanced back towards the bookcase. "Is that something people really go in for? Cyborgs and stuff?"

Mycroft chuckled, tapping the teaspoon on the side of Greg's cup. The sound was almost feline, soft and low. It raised the hair along Greg's arms.

"Rather the shallower end of the pool, in fact. We're a creative species." Mycroft picked up Greg's cup, bringing it across the room. "It's liberating in a way," he said, as Greg marvelled in silence at his grace, effortlessly co-ordinated between coffee, conversation and walking. "The sheer breadth of other people's longings. Even if something holds no personal appeal, it validates our own fancies. It assures us there's plenty of room in the world. It's tremendously reassuring."

Greg's stomach twisted, wondering what things on this shelf fell under the category of Dr Holmes's fancies. He didn't really dare to guess.

"I can see books would help with that," he said, hoping he sounded thoughtful and not skeevy. Mycroft passed him his coffee; it was nice to have his hands occupied. "Sort of...  _ it's not just me. _ And it's allowed."

"Very much," Mycroft said. He smiled, fondly. "Forgive me, Greg. I haven't even offered to take your jacket."

"No worries," Greg said with a lopsided smile. "To be honest, I heard the word coffee and I had everything I needed in the world. I'm all set now."

Mycroft's eyes grew ever brighter.

"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to the plush suede couch behind Greg. "Make yourself at home."

Greg placed his cup briefly on the nearby coffee table, unzipped his leather jacket and handed it over. As Mycroft took it away to the hatstand, Greg happily sat down. God alone knew what this couch was made from, but it hugged him as if it had missed him. He had a feeling he'd be very sorry to get up after an hour.

Taking a first sip of his coffee, Greg let his gaze wander back to the bookcase. Some of the lower shelves were easier to read from here. He scanned through them, drifting between amusement and wary fascination.

Mycroft returned to the couches, carrying his own cup of earl grey, and Greg decided that he dared to ask.

"You have a lot of gay clients, do you?" he said, with a nod at the well-stocked shelves towards the bottom.

Mycroft took a seat with him on the couch, the middle space left vacant in between. 

"A few," he replied, resting his teacup and saucer on one knee. "Those books are most commonly borrowed by heterosexual women, though."

Greg hesitated. "Aren't they about men?" he asked. "Two men, I mean. Two men together."

"Mm," Mycroft hummed. "They are."

_ Wow.  _ "Do women go in for that?" Greg asked, bewildered. A possibility occurred. "Like men do with lesbians? Sort of... threesome fantasy?"

"Not quite," Mycroft said, with a small smile. "The psychology is rather different. But you'd be astonished at the prevalence."

"What makes it different?"

Mycroft brushed a speck of lint off his knee. "It's been suggested," he said, "that problematic portrayals of women in popular media have led some female readers to develop a trauma response to seeing female characters. They're scarred by watching their bodies and their lives continually fetishised by male writers."

"Like... like with Lara Croft, you mean?"

"As one very good example, yes. Removing the female characters, and focusing instead on a romance between men, allows a reader to enjoy a story without fearing she'll be called upon at any moment to compare her body to the glories of a lavishly-described heroine. She doesn't have to worry that female characters will be held up to her as a lesson, handed to a hero as a trophy, or mistreated for a male author's sadistic enjoyment. She can enjoy the experience of fiction without a dawning sense that she is painfully and wearily present at her own execution."

With a cough, Greg closed his mouth.

"Right," he said, a little overwhelmed. "Wow, I... yeah, I can see that. I never really thought about it."

Mycroft smiled. He seemed to hold onto something for a moment, then decided to risk it. 

"The stories are enjoyable for male readers too," he said. "In all seriousness, Greg, you're more than welcome to borrow anything you wish. I'll just ask you to sign a short form saying you're happy for me to provide you with explicit material. That's all."

Greg tightened his grip around his coffee. He supposed a week had now passed since he handed over the questionnaire; Mycroft had almost certainly read its contents by now.

"I, ah... thanks," he said, with a nervous smile. "Sure. I guess I'm up for that."

"I shan't draw conclusions," Mycroft promised, lifting his tea to his mouth. He took a quiet sip. "Sometimes it's good simply to broaden our knowledge of what other people enjoy. See it as taking a safari through the minds of humanity."

Greg couldn't stop his smile from widening. "Is it weird that I like hearing how normal this is to you?" he asked.

Amusement warmed Mycroft's expression. "How so?"

"I don't know," said Greg. "I just... I like that you've got a shelf of erotica. I like that you lend them all out as if it's nothing. Must be a liberating way to live."

Mycroft considered this for a while, enjoying the thought.

"It's widened my natural boundaries," he said. "Discussing sex most of the day. That much is certainly true." He took another sip of tea. "I'd recommend it though."

Something dizzy fluttered through Greg's stomach.  _ Christ, I bet you're incredible in bed,  _ he thought. _ Or terrifying. Maybe a bit of both.  _ He hid his expression behind a drink of his coffee, hoping his cheeks hadn't turned as pink as they felt.

"How did you actually get into...?" he asked. It prompted Mycroft to smile. "If you want to say, I mean. I don't know if that's a personal question."

"Not at all," Mycroft said, recrossing his legs. "I'm well aware I entered an unusual profession. I'm used to curiosity." He balanced his cup upon his knee, then cast Greg an apologetic smile. "You must first understand that I was a very arrogant and irritating child."

Greg's mouth twitched. "Alright," he said, fighting a grin. "Go on."

"By the time I was eight, I'd made up my mind to follow my father into the civil service. He'd followed his own father there, then after a long career become very well-positioned and well-regarded. I used to hear a great many moralising speeches about my expectations. Making a success of myself. I took them all dutifully to heart."

Greg smiled a little, listening. His dad had been a delivery driver. All he'd ever expected from his children was peace and quiet.

"And I might well have taken up my father's profession," Mycroft said, with a slight sigh, "were it not for the intervention of one of my aunts. She was my mother's eldest sister. A fairly well-known feminist historian. Her textbooks are still required reading at several universities."

Greg took a sip of coffee, humming.

"She came to stay with us," Mycroft went on, "during the summer when I was thirteen. By that age I'd started regurgitating pieces of my father's speeches as if they were my own, hoping to impress everyone with how certain I was to follow in his footsteps. My aunt listened to me with quiet amusement for several weeks, biting her tongue, then one afternoon over a game of cards she lost her patience. She informed me that the palace of a powerful man is never more than a matchstick house. At the touch of a single spark, it burns to the ground. That spark is sex. And once puberty came calling, it would lay ruin to me too."

Greg laughed aloud, grinning with delight into his coffee. "Christ, she sounds amazing."

"She was," Mycroft murmured, fondly. "That conversation levelled my world. I'll never forget it."

"I bet your parents weren't thrilled?"

"They weren't present at the time, thank heavens. Out for a drive on a whim that morning. Otherwise it might all have been nipped in the bud, and my aunt sent packing." Mycroft picked up his tea and took a drink. "I denied it all vehemently in my father's stead, of course. Informed her that I was above such base matters and looked forward very much to proving her wrong."

Greg winced. "How did that go down?"

"With spectacular lack of success." Mycroft regarded Greg over his cup as he drank, bright-eyed. "My first crushes as a teenager struck me with the usual catastrophic force," he said. "I realised my aunt had been entirely right. I had a human heart and human needs after all. It... rather terrified me, in truth."

_ "Terrified _ you?"

"Mm. The force of it. It felt like a witch's prophecy had come to being over me."

"You, ah... you were a bit dramatic, weren't you?"

"I was," Mycroft said, greatly amused. "I'm glad you've spotted this. It will therefore be no surprise to you that my solution was to research."

Greg grinned. "Not hide in your bedroom, wanking and listening to angry music?"

"That might have been more efficient," Mycroft conceded, "but alas. My family did things a certain way."

"So you got interested in sex? Academically, as it were?"

"At first it was in the hope I could find some cure. Beat the system somehow. Learn everything, master the subject and transcend my mortal form. The more I studied sexual behaviour in humans, trying to discern patterns and laws, the more comfortable I grew with it all... the more fascinated by the sheer variety."

"And it all spiralled from there?"

"Mm." Mycroft's eyes glimmered behind his glasses. "My parents were dismayed by the sudden interest in psychology."

"I bet."

"They'd both hoped I'd end up governing the world, not seeking to understand it. I concealed my specific focus on sex behind a curtain of general psychiatry for many years, until I'd qualified and it was rather too late for them to stop me."

"Are they still around?"

"My mother is. I'm afraid she finds it a little distasteful, what I do. A sort of professional examiner of dirty laundry."

Greg offered a small smile, holding his coffee cup against his chest. "M'sorry," he said, and he meant it. "That must be rough."

"On occasion," Mycroft admitted, mildly. He brushed something off his trousers. "It wasn't unexpected. She belongs to a class and generation whose values seem very distant to our own. A product of her time." 

He smiled, tipping his gaze wryly over his glasses. 

"I'm pleased with my choices," he said. "I wouldn't alter them, even if given the chance."

_ Must be a nice feeling.  _ "D'you ever... I mean, does it ever affect your own life? Hearing about other people's sex lives all day?" Greg pulled at his lower lip, hoping he hadn't gone too far. "Sorry. Don't let me ask stuff I'm not allowed."

Mycroft didn't seem offended in the least. 

"All therapists need a therapist from time to time," he said. He tilted his head. "I wonder if it's similar to a life spent engaging with criminals and crime. Do you find your work affects you?"

Greg thought about it, surprised by the question. He rubbed his tongue against the inside of his teeth.

"Sure it must," he said. "I don't really notice, I suppose. Don't really know what life's like otherwise. Sometimes it knocks you for six, seeing what other people will do to each other with a half-decent reason." He took a drink of coffee, shrugging his mouth at one corner. "But you start to see patterns in the reasons. You take steps to keep your own people safe where you can."

He looked up into Mycroft's interested gaze, hesitating.

"Do your friends all introduce their new partners to you?" he asked. Mycroft laughed, a single happy bark, throwing back his head. Greg grinned, happy just to have witnessed that. "So you can give them a check, as it were?"

"Not as yet," Mycroft said, amused. "I do find it difficult to switch off on first dates."

_ That means you're single. Right? If you're dating. _

"I bet," Greg said, covering the skip of his pulse with a smile and a drink.  _ How come you're not married? Surely you'd know how to make that work. You of all people.  _ "Must be hard, trying not to... I don't know, analyse. Look for problems."

Mycroft huffed, forming something inside his mouth. His gaze slid sideways across the office.

"Always rather easier to see patterns at a distance," he said. "I'm a better therapist to others than I am to myself." He looked back into Greg's eyes, amused. "So my track record informs me, at least."

Greg grinned, squeezing his cup. "Does it lose its novelty? If you talk about it all day long, does it get boring?"

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. "Are we talking sex?"

"Y-Yeah," said Greg. He found himself proud of his own courage. "Suppose that's what we're here for."

Mycroft smiled, lowering his gaze.

"I, ah... fear I risk revealing perhaps more than you'd care to know," he said. "But quite candidly, it doesn't. I did wonder when considering it as a specialty. I feared it might be like becoming a chef in a pizza restaurant, in that I'd soon never want to see pizza again. No signs yet."

Greg didn't have the faintest clue whether to laugh or not—what the appropriate thing to do with his face would be in this moment.  _ You still enjoy sex  _ was a little too much for him to process right now, sitting alone together like this, Dr Holmes in his silk-backed waistcoat with those long and elegant legs stretched out before him.

"Suppose it's biological," Greg tried, with half a smile and half a shrug. "It's a powerful urge."

"To fuck is to be human," Mycroft said, casually. Greg's stomach slid up behind his ribs at once, overwhelmed by the sound of that feral word shaped so perfectly and spoken so calmly. Mycroft didn't seem to notice. "We're creatures of skin," he went on, "who pretend we're living suits of armour. Something I once dismissed as a brainless animal instinct in fact underpins all the greatest decisions of our lives. Sex topples governments and monarchies so routinely it's almost comic."

He shook his head, lost briefly in his thoughts, and took a sip of tea.

"We distract ourselves with power games," he said. "We tell ourselves we've evolved to be free of the yoke of our softer urges. And yet nothing occupies more of our thoughts, conscious or otherwise. No loss distresses us as deeply as the loss of intimacy." 

Greg's heart twinged. He shifted, trying to keep it off his face. "Y-yeah. Can't argue with that."

"I don't think any of us could," Mycroft said. "It's... touching. Fascinating. I don't think I'll ever surmount it." 

He moved his teacup aside to the coffee table, then smoothed its circular imprint off his knee. 

"A world of matchstick houses," he said. "Matchstick palaces, matchstick cathedrals, matchstick prisons. And we'd trade it all for the warmth of the right person's skin."

As Greg spoke, he discovered his throat had thickened without his notice.

"Makes sense," he managed. He had a feeling he'd be hearing those words long after he left here. He'd be taking them home with him, embedded in the back of his heart like darts. "I mean... nothing ever seems too bad when you're getting laid, does it?"

Mycroft's mouth formed a helpless smile. "That's probably an easier way of putting it."

Greg paused, trying to think of something safer to ask than the question in his head. In the end, he gave in. He let himself ask.

"Do you see a lot of people like me?" He searched Mycroft's eyes, unsure what he was hoping to see in them. "People who just want a bit more, as it were?"

Mycroft took a moment, drawing a breath. "Frequency disputes are very common," he said. "They can have various reasons underlying them, but yes. Incredibly common."

Greg found himself quietened by this, taking it onboard. He couldn't quite tell if it was a comfort or not.

"Suppose it's inevitable," he said at last. "In a marriage, I mean. One person needing more than the other. It's just human, isn't it?"

Mycroft's gaze gentled. 

"How have things been since I last saw you?" he asked.

Greg wished he had the strength to laugh. He looked down at his hands instead, trying to put it into words. 

"Not great," he admitted. "She, erm... Helen's not thrilled I still want to see you. She's been a bit more emotional than usual."

"Emotional?"

"Mmh."

"Which emotions in particular does she seem to be feeling?"

_ Christ.  _ "E-Erm. Anger, mostly," said Greg. "Every time I've opened my mouth this week, it's been... well, yeah. Not great. That's nothing new, though." 

The silence pulled around them, nudging him to say more. 

"Feel like a bit of an idiot, to be honest," he said. "Thought I'd try therapy so I can figure out what I'm doing wrong. What it is I'm not giving her. All I've done so far is cause a truckload more trouble."

He inhaled. 

"But you should give things a proper go," he murmured. "Before you give up on them, I mean. And otherwise I'm out of ideas, so..."

Mycroft seemed to process this for some time, deciding something uneasy in the back of his head. At least, he took a long breath.

"May I be candid with you, Greg?"

Greg paled slightly, shifting. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Sure," he said, bracing for impact. "Hit me with it."

Mycroft took another moment to put his thoughts together.

"Having spoken to you both," he said, and Greg hung upon his every word, "I believe some underlying issues might be affecting Helen's ability to connect. Proceeding with any joint therapy without addressing those issues would be a fruitless exercise. I'm hoping Helen will benefit from her sessions with Dr Sahasrabuddhe. Presuming they're a success, joint sessions will then run far more smoothly and have far better results."

_ Wait—what have I—underlying issues? _

"Oh," Greg said, as his pulse stuttered and struggled to catch up. "Oh, I... I'm pretty sure Helen won't take you up on that. Sorry. Does that cause a massive problem?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"She, erm... she didn't really seem comfortable with the whole therapy thing," Greg said. "Sorry. It's not you, she's just a bit... guarded. Private."

"Really?" Mycroft said, gently confused. A single frown line appeared between his eyebrows. "She confirmed her weekly slot with Ananya by telephone three days ago. I believe we're expecting her tomorrow morning."

_ Oh. _

"Oh," Greg said, startled. Helen hadn't mentioned a word about it. "Oh, right. Okay. Maybe she just forgot to tell me." He became suddenly aware of Mycroft reading him, trying to work something out, coming to conclusions. "She might've mentioned and I didn't hear," Greg added, as his heart drummed against his ribs. "Well, that's good... if she's... right. Good."

Rebooting his brain, he drew a breath.

"Did you say underlying issues?" he asked. "What sort of issues? Is this something I've done?"

"Emotional issues," Mycroft said, and looked as if he were proceeding with great care. "Almost certainly pre-dating your relationship. I didn't have enough time with Helen to reach any conclusions myself. She's now Ananya's patient, which means their sessions will be confidential between the two of them. But I have enormous faith in Ananya's abilities as a therapist. I can assure you that Helen is in the right hands."

Greg nodded, not sure he understood. Trying not to think, he dropped his gaze into his coffee.

"I'll ask you not to discuss this with Helen for now," Mycroft said, gently. "It... can sometimes take time for an injured person to understand that they're injured. They need to reach that understanding themselves, under the guidance of a professional. Hearing it from other people can cause defensiveness. It might slow or even stop the process."

Greg swallowed; his throat muscles stayed tight. He had to ask.

"Hang on," he said, almost certain he'd misunderstood somewhere. His heart was pounding in his ears. "Are you saying it's... not necessarily my fault? This thing? You're saying it's... i-it's something that  _ Helen _ needs to—"

Mycroft seemed to take a moment to compose himself, his gaze aching.

"You're not at fault," he murmured. Greg almost didn't dare believe it. "It's perhaps wrong to say that anyone is  _ at fault _ in this situation, but..." 

Inhaling, Mycroft spelled it out.

"In terms of intimacy," he said, "I don't believe you're the source of the impediment, Greg."

Greg translated this word by word, his eyes still locked in Mycroft's. "But... a-are you seriously—" He couldn't not voice it. His shoulders shook as he forced the words out. "Please don't just tell me what I want to hear. Please. That's not what I came here for."

"I'm not in the business of comforting fabrications," Mycroft said, and though his voice remained gentle, there arose a quiet force behind his expression. Greg couldn't look away from it. "In a previously passionate relationship, the withdrawal of all sex and intimacy from an obviously loving and attentive husband is not normal. Something in Helen's circumstances has prompted that change. By the time we reach a stage of joint sessions, hopefully she'll feel comfortable to confide some things she'd like from you—some small changes that might help bring the two of you closer—but I believe there's significant work to be done before then. It isn't work that anyone can do for her. And for what it's worth, Greg, you've acted with great patience and compassion in difficult circumstances. You've done the right thing by now reaching for professional help."

Greg's chest heaved. He felt almost nauseous with the force of it, the relief, the heat now breaking over the back of his neck.  _ I'm not just an arsehole,  _ he thought, looking down into his coffee. He tightened his hands to stop them shaking. _ I'm not just a dirty old perv. It's not just me. _

"It would be helpful if we took sex entirely off the table for now," Mycroft added, carefully. "It would allow Helen the space she needs to examine her own feelings."

_ Christ.  _ "Don't worry about that," Greg managed in a rush of air. "That's... y-yeah. That's fine. That's gone."

"Until any emotional blockage has been dissolved, suggestions of sex might seem to be an attack on her integrity. Her response will be defensiveness, rather than compromise."

_ It's not just me. It's not my fault.  _

"Alright," Greg said, still trying to breathe normally. "No, I... I understand. I wasn't planning on pushing anything."

Mycroft went on, still watching him gently. "I'd recommend being cautious with offers of non-sexual intimacy," he said. "Helen might interpret things like kissing or touching as 'requests' for sex, even if that isn't the case."

"Yeah, that's... I-I've noticed that. For quite a while."

"I appreciate this must seem like a retreat, when you've already compromised quite drastically. But I believe it's the best course of action."

Greg's heart strained. He looked up, fighting the heat in his eyes as he looked into Mycroft's.

"It's alright," he said. "I'm... I-I appreciate you telling me. A lot. Usually I don't have a clue whether I'm making things better or worse."

Mycroft nodded quietly, listening. Greg glanced down at his hands as he sought for more to say.

"Kind of a relief to hear I should pull back," he managed. "I... I-I don't know. It's just nice to know what to do. Not floundering around, messing up no matter what I try."

Mycroft primed a careful question. 

"When did you last suggest sex to Helen?" he asked. "How long would you say it's been since you brought the subject up?"

Greg wished he knew why those simple words made him feel sick. "Kinda hard to say, if I'm honest." The silence stretched. "I brought it up to ask about therapy, and we had a big row about it, but... actually asking if she, y'know... wants to go to bed... honestly it's been a while."

"Two months?" Mycroft tried. "Three?"

Greg's stomach twisted. "Oh, Jesus."

"Go on," Mycroft said, softly. 

"It's... erm, Helen initiates.  _ Used _ to initiate. Before we stopped." Greg hesitated, uncomfortable with the memories. "Back at the start, she s-sorta liked it if I was a bit more forward, but... I don't know, that changed somewhere. She started teasing me about being a pest. After a while, I realised that whenever I suggested anything, she was suddenly busy or her nails were drying or she had a headache coming on. So I kinda let her... t-take the lead, as it were. I didn't want to be that kind of arsehole. Sometimes in bed, settling down for the night, I'd try a cuddle and see if my hands got slapped away, but she decided if it went further. I couldn't tell you the last time I asked."

Mycroft nodded, his gaze gentle as he took this onboard. "When did that shift start to occur, would you say?"

Greg drew a nervous breath. 

"Marriage?" he said. He tried to cover it with a laugh. "Cliché, but..."

"Marriage  _ can _ cause these shifts," Mycroft said. "It's a new state of being for you both. It's easy to focus on the day itself, celebrating what has come before, rather than on deciding on shared expectations for the future."

Greg processed that for a while, wishing it didn't make so much sense. 

"Sometimes I worry she saw it as the end," he confessed. "The finish line, y'know? Like in fairy tales. Big day, big white dress, kiss the prince. I... kinda wanted to see it as the start."

Mycroft nodded, gently. The quiet pulled around them. "When we reach a stage of joint sessions," he said, "we can explore your feelings towards the marriage. What you both want from your future together, going forwards. But that stage is some time away."

Greg still couldn't quite believe it. He'd expected a lot of things when he'd first made the appointment. He'd dreaded most of them, but told himself it would be for the best. If there was something he was doing wrong, he needed to hear it.

He hadn't expected to be told this was out of his hands.

"So... so while Helen's with her therapist," he said, glancing up at Mycroft, "and that's all going on... erm, what should I do? Am I just kinda waiting for now?" His stomach tightened. "Will you stop my appointments, or..."

"There are things you and I can work on in the mean time," Mycroft said. Greg forced himself to exhale normally, slowly, not all at once in a rush. "I'd like to support you in re-examining some of your own needs, Greg. Rediscovering yourself a little. Prioritising your own wellbeing."

Mycroft's careful smile raised Greg's pulse.

"I get the feeling this issue has affected your confidence," Mycroft said.

_ Christ.  _ "yeah. That's fair."

"It seems like you once enjoyed a very healthy connection to your own sexuality. I'd like to restore that to you. We'll spend our time talking about you as an individual, not just a component of a couple."

Greg shifted quietly. It was strange, contemplating the concept of his  _ own _ sexuality. It was like trying to perceive of his  _ own  _ home. He was so used to sharing one with someone else.

"That sounds good," he said. He hesitated, his eyes straying to Mycroft's neat round silver cufflinks. "I, erm... I don't know if I really remember how it feels, to... well, be an individual. I've just been worried about my marriage for so long. It's weird to think about just me."

Mycroft waited, letting him think.

It felt easier to say this prefaced with a laugh. "Kinda can't believe half the stuff I did when I was young," Greg admitted. "Like he wasn't really me. Or... or I'm not him. Not anymore."

"How do you feel, thinking about those times?"

It took a long time to locate the words. "Sad," Greg decided. His throat gripped. "Erm, lonely. A-angry, maybe. That I didn't appreciate it. What I had." He found himself gazing back towards the bookcase. He pushed his fingers together to stop them shaking. "Like I let things go all wrong, somehow. So... yeah, sure. We could talk about that."

The silence strained.

"I-I don't mean... I mean, I love Hel," he said, looking across at Mycroft. There was no judgement in Mycroft's expression, only patience. "I love my life. There are people who've got it much worse than me. I don't mean to sound like an ungrateful bastard."

"You don't," Mycroft said, gently. Greg held onto it tight. "You sound like someone with understandable frustrations, which are always best soothed by expressing them. It's an act of healing, Greg. Within this office, you can say anything you wish." Mycroft gave him a quiet smile. "We're only talking, after all."

Greg returned the smile with care. A little brightness stirred in his chest.

"Is therapy always like this?" he asked, glancing at his empty coffee cup. "Just... y'know, sitting and chatting?"

Mycroft gave a mild nod. "If we decide to explore some deeper issues," he said, "or anything where it would be better for you to relax, you might be more comfortable lying down. But at this stage, coffee on the couch seems to be suiting us nicely. Wouldn't you say?"

Greg flushed. "Y-yeah. Yeah, this is... I can feel this helping."

"Good." Mycroft regarded him fondly, his gaze warm behind his glasses. "So long as you're comfortable in my company, Greg, and our time together helps you, it can take any number of forms. We'll adapt to your needs as we discover them."

Greg's stomach gave a distinct flutter. "You're the expert," he said. "You know best."

Mycroft made a noise of soft amusement, shifting on the couch.

"As it happens," he said, as he held out a hand for Greg's coffee cup, "I generally believe that my clients know best. My role in the process is simply to restore their connection to their own mind. Once that has been achieved, everything tends to fall rather beautifully into place. Would you like another drink?"

Greg's heart tugged. "Really?"

"Mm," Mycroft said, with a smile. "Then we can chat a little more, if you like. We've plenty of time."

As Greg watched Mycroft get up from the couch, he realised with a kick of his pulse that he'd stay here all night if Mycroft let him. He'd sit here until dawn, just talking and listening, safe in the hold of those gentle unjudging eyes. It almost hurt to realise the comfort that it brought him—someone else's gaze, a glance away if he needed it.

_ I bet patients fall in love with you,  _ he thought, as Mycroft smiled down at him.  _ Like in films. I bet it happens twice a month. _

"S-sure," Greg said, aching inside. "Yeah, that'd be... thanks. Can I join you on the earl grey, maybe? This late I'd better watch my caffeine."

Mycroft's eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "Of course," he said. "I'd hate to be the cause of sleepless nights. I won't be a moment."


	8. Personal

The hour together seemed to vanish. Though they kept lapsing into chatting, it never felt like simply chatting. Mycroft listened with all the attention and affection of an old friend who hadn't seen Greg in ten years. Greg listened with delight in return, wanting nothing more than to catch a few more glimpses into Mycroft's life. There was no space left inside of Greg's head for him to worry. 

It crossed his mind once or twice that perhaps he  _ should _ make space somehow, take a second to consider whether Mycroft's warmth might be theatrical or faked, feigned interest to help Greg feel better.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to waste this precious time on worry. He just wanted to hear Mycroft talk.

As the evening began to feel late, Mycroft made a subtle check beneath his cuff.

"Something I should have mentioned," he murmured with a glance at Greg and a smile, replacing his sleeve over his watch. "Most important, and inexcusable that I forgot. When a therapist checks their timepiece during your appointment, they are not in any way bored or tired of you. They're simply ensuring they have enough time to ground you, rather than risk ejecting you from their office in floods of tears."

Greg grinned, reassured to hear it. He filed it away in his mind for next time. "Have we got time to ground?" he asked.

"Ample," Mycroft said, bright-eyed. "Time to assign you your homework, too."

Greg nearly laughed. "Homework? Should I be scared?"

"Not in the least," Mycroft said, turning on the couch to consider his bookshelf of erotica. He finished his tea as he scanned the rows of books. "Do you have any way of concealing something?" he asked. "I've no wish to land you in hot water."

"Christ. Erm... I-I'm not so sure, to be honest. She goes through my stuff sometimes."

Mycroft's expression seemed to flicker. "In that case," he said, reaching inside his waistcoat for his phone. "Something slightly more discreet, then. There's an app I'd like you to download, if you please. It's an ebook reader. If you add my email address to the approved list in settings, I'll be able to send titles directly to your library."

_ God. Presents of porn from my therapist.  _

"S-sure," Greg said. "Yeah, that's alright. It's not called Erotic Ebooks App or anything, is it?"

"Fear not," Mycroft said, half-amused, swiping through screens on his mobile. After the lightest of pauses, he asked, "Does Helen have access to your phone?"

"I mean... I've not got anything to hide," Greg said, "so it's not a big deal. If anyone ever texts me something she wouldn't like, I just delete it."

From the brief skip in Mycroft's expression, they'd just scheduled something to chat about next week. 

"I'll add the app link to the text reminder for your next session," he said, "along with my email address. I'll send you a selection of things, but don't feel obliged to read all of them. Perhaps just pick one."

Greg tried a wary smile. "Then we'll discuss the themes and the author's intentions next week?" he said.

Mycroft's mouth curved. "We'll talk about your impressions," he said, his eyes bright, "with a view to you learning something new about yourself. Even if what you learn is that you have no particular interest in the subject matter." 

He sent something on his phone with a tap, locked the device and slipped it away inside his waistcoat.

"Are there any subjects you'd like me to avoid?" he asked. "Anything you already know is outside your interests or uncomfortable for you?"

Greg almost responded in instinct that there was nothing. He was fairly open-minded as a rule, and supposed there was no harm in trying something new, especially if he was under no obligation to enjoy it.

A tiny prickle then flittered through his heart.

Once he'd thought it, he knew he'd have to say it. He took a moment to make it feel casual inside his own mouth, determined that this wouldn't be an issue.

"I'm, erm... not usually too hot with cheating," he said. "If it's all in the open, like a threesome or something, that's fine. Just not... I don't know, it's just not for me."

If Mycroft suspected something, he didn't show it. He didn't even skip.

"Thank you," he said, as warm and easy as ever. "I'll make sure to avoid that. For your peace of mind, you can expect a selection from the more traditional end of the ice cream counter this time. Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry. We'll start investigating raspberry ripple and tutti frutti if and when you develop a fancying."

_ Jesus.  _ "I'm almost scared," Greg said, retrieving his wary smile.

"Don't be," Mycroft advised, and dropped him a wink. Greg's stomach immediately flipped inside out. "I've had to introduce women old enough to be your mother to the entire concept of orgasms, inspector. I'll be gentle with you as well."

Greg had never heard a more nervous laugh than the one which came out of his mouth. In his panic, an emergency joke offered itself up as a diversion. He seized it with both hands and threw it out.

_ "Theoretically _ introduced, I hope?" he said.

Mycroft chuckled from the pit of his throat. "You'd be amazed how often I run into that misconception."

"Jesus, really? I was joking. Do people actually arrive thinking that...?"

"That I'm ready and willing to get hands on?" Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow over his glasses. "So often it's no longer a surprise."

_ Christ, man. Is it any wonder when you look at people like that, though?  _

"So it's... that happens, does it?" Greg said, quickly covering his thoughts. "I mean people thinking sex therapists are, erm... not you actually  _ doing _ anything like... I'm sure you wouldn't."

"It's a common misunderstanding," Mycroft replied, gently amused by his nerves. "And it's easily corrected. Legitimate sex therapists hold themselves to extremely high ethical standards. Intimate relations with a patient would be spectacularly unwise."

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I can imagine. Do you... ever have patients who try to..."

"Mm, I do."

"What do you... I mean, how do you deal with that?" Greg asked. "Do they get moved straight to another therapist?"

Mycroft smiled, utterly unphazed. "Not in the least," he said. "They stay with me and I talk them through it."

_ Yikes.  _ "Isn't that kind of awkward?" Greg said. "For you, I mean. For them as well."

Mycroft shook his head. 

"Rather the bedrock of my profession," he said. "Dealing with those things we might usually look away from. Burying the matter or ignoring it would be counterproductive."

_ Holy shit.  _ "Wow," Greg managed, oddly nervous again. He smiled, hoping the shiver down his back hadn't been as visible as it felt. "Well, I guess... so long as  _ you  _ don't... then it doesn't go anywhere."

"Mm," Mycroft said, still smiling. Greg had the curious instinct he was watching his words. "Erotic feelings or attraction towards a therapist aren't any kind of a problem, unless they're reciprocated and then acted upon."

_ So if I... if I start to... I'm not going to.  _

_ But if I did, then... _

"Good to know," Greg said, his heart beating hard. He pulled together a smile. "Not surprised you got so interested in this stuff. I think it's interesting, too."

Mycroft smiled. He seemed to decide to keep something in his mouth, lowering his brightened gaze. 

"Let me fetch your jacket," he said.

As Mycroft tidied their cups to his tea tray in the corner, Greg nervously zipped himself into his jacket. He wasn't sure how you were supposed to say farewell to a therapist. Last time, he'd had two easy things to offer:  _ thanks again for fitting us in,  _ and  _ I'd better go catch up with Helen.  _ This time, it was just goodbye. 

With a last anxious glance at Mycroft's bookcase, something else arose in the back of Greg's mind. He'd been half-expecting Mycroft to ask about it all night, and didn't really know why Mycroft hadn't. It wasn't a major issue, of course. Maybe that was why Mycroft hadn't mentioned it, some awareness that there wasn't all that much to say.

All the same, just in case, Greg waited until it looked like this was it: goodnight by the door, Mycroft opening it for him with a smile.

"Thank you for coming," Mycroft said. "I hope it's been useful. As always, you're welcome to contact me with questions during the week. If a longer answer is required, I might save it to discuss during our next session, but I'm always very happy to hear from you."

_ Happy? Not just willing? _

Pushing the thought aside, Greg told himself to be brave. 

"Before I go," he said. Mycroft smiled in reassurance, one hand still resting on the door. "I, erm... I-I wanted to ask a favour."

"Of course," Mycroft said. "What can I do?"

"I guess you've read my form by now," Greg said. "The one I filled in for you last week." He hesitated, glancing at Mycroft's mouth. His heart felt like it was somehow beating in reverse. "Can you please not let Helen find out I'm... well, certain bits of my history. I got kinda wild when I was young. I don't think it'd go down very well."

Mycroft looked into his eyes, infinitely gentle. "Are we talking about your relationships with men?" he asked.

Greg hadn't heard it voiced in years, and never once in his life so calmly. It raised the hairs on his arms; his heart slid up into his throat at once. It was hard not to leap in and dismantle those words immediately, take them off Mycroft and give them back corrected.  _ They weren't really relationships. They weren't really men, just other guys my age. There weren't that many of them, anyway. If there were, it didn't mean anything. It wasn't a big deal. _

Pulling in another breath, Greg did his best to respond just as calmly. 

"She's not homophobic or anything," he said. "It's just... it'd be a shock to her. She doesn't know many gay people. I don't think she'd understand it was... y'know, youthful exploration. Just one of those things."

Mycroft nodded, every inch of his expression reassuring. 

"It's quite alright," he said. "What you share with me is sacred, Greg. Helen won't hear a word of it."

The relief was a little overwhelming. "Thanks," Greg said, exhaling with a shudder. "Thank you, I... I really appreciate that." He looked down towards his feet, trying to find something breezy and casual to say. "Helen, erm... kinda wondered if you are. Gay, I mean." 

_ Jesus, what—why am I—  _

"It's not an issue either way," he added, trying to smile, as his brain shrieked at his great stupid mouth to stop talking. "She just mentioned, y'know... after the session. We were chatting and it came up."

Mycroft smiled. There was something almost knowing in it, quietly fond. He looked into Greg's eyes as if reading them, enjoying whatever was written there.

"She picked up on that, did she?" he murmured.

Greg's heart bumped up against his ribs, as soft and quick and skittery as a butterfly. "Yeah," he said. "S-sort of." Flushing, he tried another smile. "Sorry if that's too personal."

Mycroft took a moment to pick his words, still enjoying something in Greg's face.

"Some clients find it helpful if I'm never entirely present," he said. Greg held onto every word. "A ghost gone with the light. Others find it comforting to know I'm very human. Which are you?"

_ God. If I'd met you twenty years ago. _

_ Ten years ago. _

_ Any time but this time now. _

"Think I'd prefer you were human," Greg managed, softer than he'd meant. He couldn't take his eyes from Mycroft's lips. "Is that alright?"

Mycroft nodded—the gentlest motion.

"Human, then," he murmured. "Whatever you need, Greg. I will be here."

Greg's throat contracted. "Right," he said.  _ Christ, I don't want to go. I just want to... to stay somehow. Stay right here.  _ "I guess I'll see you next week, then. Thanks for tonight."

"My pleasure," Mycroft said. He seemed to take a breath. "Drive safely, Greg. Goodnight."

He stepped back inside the office, lowering his gaze, and gently closed the door. 

Its quiet snap filled the corridor around Greg with silence. Nothing came after; nothing moved, not even a little. For a moment or two, the world and all its contents simply didn't seem to exist.

In the stillness, Greg gazed at the flat expanse of wood now in his eyeline. He waited for the aching in his throat to pass.

_ Lonely,  _ he realised as he swallowed—and for the first time, he understood it had haunted his every step for weeks. He hadn't known it was there until it was missing for a while. Now it returned, horrible and heavy, waiting for him right outside this door.

_ Oh, god. Shit. Fuck. I don't want to go home. _

Greg closed his eyes, breathing in silent desperation.  _ Shit, shit. Stop it.  _ He couldn't let himself do this. He couldn't stand here crying in an empty corridor, so fragile that even a professional  _ until next week  _ hurt. It wouldn't be so bad. He was tired, that was all. Long day. First proper therapy session. If he was lucky, Helen would still be out when he got in. He could go straight to bed and just sleep.

Greg's fingers reached out.

They brushed against the door before he'd realised they were moving, one soundless sweep across the panel of gleaming mahogany. He hated himself for it, unsure why he'd wanted it, why he'd needed just one single touch. But it somehow gave him the strength to turn away.

He could still feel its polished surface against his fingers as he let himself out into the night.

Two storeys up, Mycroft Holmes lifted his forehead in silence from his office door. He inhaled, told himself it had been a long day, and determined to find some company for this weekend. Some undeserving ex-boyfriend would have to do. If he regretted it bitterly on Monday, then the Mycroft of next Monday would simply have to cope.

He needed to feel skin against his own more than he needed a full stock of dignity.

He needed to stop thinking before he could begin.

*

Driving home, Greg put music on to keep him company. He tried a cheerful playlist under some vague sense that he should cram out the thoughts, hope they took a hint and left—but after half a song he couldn't bear it. The anxious mess of his mind itched for a specific Jess Glynne track from four years ago. He'd barely even noticed it at the time. Now he needed it like smoke in his lungs. At the next set of lights, he searched for it on his mobile,  _ Take Me Home, _ and hit repeat. It helped, even as it hurt.

He pulled into the drive to find the windows all lit up, the house awake. Helen was here. She'd beaten him home. 

Greg's blanket of loneliness tightened itself around him at the sight.  _ Shouldn't feel like this,  _ he thought. Panic threatened to well up in its wake; he breathed it down, gripping the wheel.  _ Stop. Idiot. You made your choices. You made your fucking bed. We're in therapy now and it's fine. We'll fix it. We'll make it feel like it should. _

_ And there's changes we can make for now. _

Recognising the loneliness brought a warped kind of comfort. At least he now knew what this feeling was. On any other night, gazing up at the house from the safety of his car, he'd be struggling with a dread he didn't understand, a guilt he didn't dare to look at, and a paralysing sense that nothing would ever lift these weights from his back. They'd just grow heavier and heavier, crushing him lower to the ground with every day. Letting himself finally look was a relief.

_ There's problems,  _ he told himself, getting out of the car, and breathed in a lungful of night air.  _ But we can fix them. _

With the song still echoing in the back of his mind, Greg unlocked the front door of the house.

He found her in the lounge. She was curled motionless under a blanket, bleached by the light of the TV as she stared fixedly into the screen.  _ Waiting for me,  _ Greg thought, breathing in.  _ Wanting me to realise she's been waiting.  _ His gaze pulled towards the tightness of her jaw, the utter lack of emotion in her face, and his heart sped up in an attempt to warn him: she was angry. He was in trouble. She was going to shout.

Oddly self-aware, Greg soothed himself that she might shout—but it wasn't all about him, if she did. She had problems too. His needed time; hers needed space.

"You forget I'm out on Wednesdays now?" he asked, trying to be light about it, as he unzipped his jacket in the doorway. "I left you food in the fridge. Hope you found it."

The lump of Helen's tongue appeared in the middle of her cheek.

"A text," she said, "might have been  _ kind. _ Or was that too much to expect?"

_ It's not all me.  _ It felt like plate armour. Greg was safe behind something for the first time in nearly a year, safe behind the words of Dr Holmes.  _ It's not just me. She needs space, not fuss. And I won't be alone in that space. _

"I'll remind you next week," he said, slipping his jacket off his shoulders. "I thought I'd catch you when I got in from work, but... visiting Charlotte, were you?"

Her eyes flashed towards him, sharp as they locked onto his face. 

"You want a signed note, do you?" she said. "A permission slip? I'll visit my sister if I want to."

Greg simply smiled. "Sure, love. Wondered how your day was, that's all. Do you fancy a cuppa?"

Helen said nothing, staring at him from within the folds of her blanket.

"I'm making one for me," Greg added.

Her eyes narrowed. "No," she said at last, her jaw set harder than ever. "Not this late at night."

It spinked off Greg's armour without a scratch.  _ Not even ten o'clock,  _ he told himself.  _ She's hurting, that's all. It's not you. She needs patience and space. _

"Alright," he said. "Still got some decaff tea, if you change your m—"

"How was  _ therapy?" _ Helen cut across him, her gaze mocking. "Did you cry your eyes out all over him?"

"Not this time," Greg said. This was only getting easier. "Maybe next week."

"I bet you're looking forward to that," she said. "Telling him your sob story. How badly treated you are. Making out to him I'm some sort of evil witch."

"Nah, love. He says we're gonna work just on me." Greg pushed his hands into his pockets of his jeans. "You're there tomorrow morning, are you? You didn't mention."

"If  _ you're _ allowed to piss money up the wall on utter fucking nonsense, Greg, so am I."

Under normal circumstances, they'd be screaming at each other by now. Greg almost felt dizzy with the ease of it. 

"Mycroft mentioned it was a woman," he said. "Ananya, right?"

_ "Mycroft," _ Helen tutted, appalled. "And yes, it's a woman. Why? What's it to you?"

"I'm glad for you," Greg said. "More comfortable. I hope it goes well."

Helen said nothing, regarding him now with visible concern. She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, frowned, and returned her wary gaze to the TV.

Greg supposed there'd be no better time to bring this up. He'd thought about it since halfway home. Seeing her had now settled his mind. He even suddenly knew how best to phrase it.

"Hey," he said, and she drew in a breath of annoyance. "Mycroft's told me I need to rein myself in, give you a break. I think he's right. I'm sorry I didn't see it before."

Her eyes returned to his face at once, suspicious.

"So I'm going to move into the spare room for a bit," he said. Helen's mouth dropped open. "You can stop worrying about me that way. Get some proper sleep for once."

No reply came. Helen simply stared at him, lost, pale in the light of the screen.

Greg smiled; his heart beat hard and slow.

"I'll shift my stuff across now," he said. "Then I'm going to hit the hay. I'm knackered and I'm out early tomorrow. How's your sister?"

Helen closed her mouth, blinking. 

"Fine," she said. "She's... fine."

"Good." This time yesterday, Greg might have tried to go over and hug her—kiss her head, stroke her arm, give her some little sign he was her husband and he loved her. He'd thought small reassurances were what they both needed. 

It was a relief, knowing better now. 

He dropped her a gentle wink instead. "See you in the morning," he said, withdrew from the lounge, and headed off upstairs.

It took all of two minutes to move what he needed for the night: a suit for the morning, clean boxer shorts, a phone charger. Helen would be out at Zumba tomorrow. He could move the rest of his clothes over then. The spare room ran colder than the rest of the house, a product of its pale blue paint scheme and the light linen curtains at the window, but Greg's blood ran warmer than most. He'd be perfectly happy in here. Something about its smallness felt good right now. Though the bed was only a single, it had hardly ever been used. Its mattress still had bounce and depth to it.

As he squirmed into bed, cosy in his boxer shorts, a peaceful sense of regained ground came over Greg. He leaned down and plugged his phone in to charge, glad to discover the cord reached over to the bed.

Amongst a small pile of work emails and Facebook notifications, the sight of one particular name caught his eye.

_ [MH - 20:11] Hello, Greg. It was very good to see you today. A productive session I think. We're due to meet again next Wednesday 27th at 7pm but do let me know if circumstances change. - M _

Attached discreetly to the body of the message were a link and an email address. Smiling a little, Greg tapped on it and waited for the app store to load.  _ Little Library E-Reader. All your favourite books on the go.  _ It took a minute or two to install, then another few minutes to tell the app his name, his email address, what name and style he wanted to give his virtual bookshelf  _ ("Greg's Bookshelf" _ —the style with the tiny plant, like Mycroft's) and finally, who he wanted to allow access to his library.

_ mycroft@yorkstreet.org.uk,  _ Greg typed.

He then opened up his messages.

_ [GL - 21:06] Hi Mycroft :) Thanks for the link. All installed, think I've added your email to the right list. I'm ready for erotica when you are _

Smiling to himself, Greg hit send. He laid his phone on the floor by the bed, then realised he'd forgotten to brush his teeth. He forced himself out from under the covers and padded along the landing to the bathroom. There was no sign of Helen in their room.  _ Still downstairs, _ he guessed. He wondered who she'd texted first—what new game they'd decided he was playing.

As he slipped back into the spare room, Greg's phone flashed gently in the darkness. Two messages awaited him.

_ [MH - 21:06] Splendid. Thank you for letting me know. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:07] I do hope you're now deleting that message from your sentbox? Unless you're about to impress me deeply by setting up a PIN code on your phone. - M _

"Not worth my life, mate," Greg mumbled, typing. He watched the window as he waited for Mycroft's reply.

_ [GL - 21:10] "What are you trying to hide" etc etc _

_ [MH - 21:11] Mm. Please remind me to give you a gentle yet stern look re: this subject next Wednesday. - M _

Greg bit his lip, wishing he couldn't picture that so clearly. It felt strange, not knowing what was around Mycroft right now—where he was, who he was with. It seemed like weeks since Greg had left the office. Weeks, or maybe moments. He couldn't really tell.

_ [GL - 21:11] Uh oh. How stern? _

_ [MH - 21:11] Mild/moderate stern. And wholly in your interests. - M _

_ [GL - 21:12] OK. I'll prepare myself... _

_ [MH - 21:12] Good. Now, I believe it's time to acquire yourself a milky drink and choose a bedtime story. The forces of law and order need their rest. - M _

Greg grinned, starting to type. Another message arrived before he could finish.

_ [MH - 21:12] I hope the week ahead treats you well. - M _

"God," Greg mumbled. He took a moment to remind himself he wasn't an awkward teenager with a new best friend, texting each other in the dark like idiots.  _ One more message,  _ he thought.  _ Wrap it up, Lestrade. _

_ [GL - 21:13] You too :) Thanks again for today _

_ [MH - 21:13] Again: my pleasure. Sweet dreams. - M _

Greg stared down at the final message for a while, half-aware he was smiling again. As he closed the window, he spotted the new app now settled on his homescreen with the others.  _ Sleep,  _ he told himself.  _ Look tomorrow. _

After ten long minutes with his head on the pillow, curiosity won the battle.

He opened his library to find the previously empty shelf had gained three books, all ringed with a tantalising sparkle.  _ NEW,  _ the little banner on each one announced. Amused, Greg cast his eye across his choice of homework for the next seven days.

He grinned at once from ear to ear.

One straight anthology. One gay anthology. 

One anthology of cyborgs and robots.

"Bastard," he whispered. He drew a breath and tapped on the second one, his heart beating happy and loud. "You absolute bastard. Don't you dare turn me queer again."


	9. Wish Fulfilment

They were together at a party in a garden late at night. Bamboo torches and drifting green fireflies filled the darkness with colour. Music came from somewhere in the crowd, a proud and restless rhythm of drums and whistles. The night was only young. 

Friends and strangers greeted them as they passed—laughing, smiling, toasting them both with champagne. They were in love. It gave the whole world joy just to see them. If Mycroft was meant to feel ashamed of what he'd done, he didn't care. He had his lover's hand clasped in his own; he had everything.

Turning over one shoulder, he dropped Greg a sly and hopeful wink.

Greg grinned, understanding him at once. He tugged at Mycroft's hand, then happily followed.

They slipped away from the crowd and the torches, off into the darker reaches of the garden. Mycroft kept a tight hold on Greg's hand as they strode over the grass together, shy and wild with what they were about to do. The two of them were soon part of the shadows, safely hidden from all sight, and while there were other couples here, shy amongst the quiet of the trees, none of them would mind. Nights like this were too perfect to waste.

Mycroft laid Greg down upon the grass. The soft carpet of green felt as cool and comfortable as fresh sheets underneath them. He opened Greg's clothes with eager hands, buttons parting and zips undone, fabric tossed away into the grass until finally he reached the warmth of Greg's skin. He raked his palms and fingers across his lover's body in utter joy, watching with adoration as his Greg laid back and panted for him, restless moans drowned out by the distant drums.

Settling into sex was easy, as simple as climbing astride Greg. They began to move together, slowly, smoothly, finding their way inside each other breath by breath. Greg's hands wrapped around Mycroft's waist to help bring him down in time, coaxing him to meet each lazy roll. It was so easy just to trust and relax.

As pleasure grew, Mycroft's head fell back. His mouth dropped open, overwhelmed with the perfect simplicity of it all.

_ My lover. _

It made him ache.  _ My lover, as often as I want.  _ Greg's hands felt their way up his bare chest, fingers spread, petting him like a cat as he panted and kept on rocking.  _ I deserve you. I love you. I will look after you.  _ Mycroft found himself looking down, overjoyed as a flushed and grinning Greg gazed back up at him, enjoying Mycroft's pleasure as much as his own.

"Let's stay," Greg said. Mycroft caught and lifted his hands, pinning them either side of his head against the grass. Greg groaned and arched upwards with hope. "We'll just stay here," he panted, as Mycroft leaned down to kiss him. The words were gasped between their mouths. "Don't give me back."

Mycroft couldn't bear the thought—giving him back. Nothing seemed more unjust in the world. Their lips sealed and he pushed his hands through Greg's hair, shaking, cradling the man he loved against his mouth, feeling Greg shake with enjoyment.  _ Just one more minute,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ One more moment where you're mine. _

He woke to the beginning of weary tears, his entire body lonely.

_ Shit. _

Mycroft lifted both hands to his face, blocking it all out: reality and dream. Both stung with their force.

_ Shit, shit. _

With a hard breath, Mycroft forced himself to listen to his pulse. He tried to count its restless thumps as it raged.  _ Six. Seven. Eight. This is fine. Nine. Ten. This is normal.  _ Sex dreams about clients were nothing new. They often occurred when his subconscious sensed progress somewhere, some hopeful new development he should pursue. His sleeping brain had been responsible for more than one breakthrough with a client. There was a lot to be learned from how his subconscious mind would recommend that he fuck someone.

But all he felt in this moment was loss.

_ "Stay here,"  _ he remembered, his heart straining as it struggled to slow.  _ "Don't give me back."  _ His entire being seemed to heave around the words; they echoed through his soul, stuck. Was this actually about Greg Lestrade? Or was he merely starring in the role of someone else? As he forcibly deepened his breaths, Mycroft made a silent scan through the long-cold debris of his childhood, looking for someone or something he'd been distressed to give back. He supposed Sherlock's birth had led to a decrease in attention from both parents. That might be viable.

But he could still feel the grass beneath his knees. 

He could feel Greg's hands gliding gently over his chest. He could feel the happy drums still beating through his blood, the warmth of Greg's mouth stroking with love against his own. Nothing about it brought to mind his miserable bloody childhood, and it hadn't been a Sherlock dream. Sherlock dreams were invariably nightmares. They took place in dirty or frightening places where Mycroft couldn't get his bearings, couldn't navigate properly, and all he ever wanted in those dreams was to find Sherlock in order to get him out of there.

He'd felt perfectly safe in that torchlit garden. Safe enough to make love, to take his time, to laugh with his lover and smile and be stroked as if his life were perfectly happy.

_ Wish fulfilment?  _ Mycroft thought vaguely. He wiped the moisture away from his eyes with his fingertips, permitting himself a shaky sigh. He didn't feel fulfilled. He felt bloody lonely, to be frank.  _ "Don't give me back." _

Why did that hurt quite so much? 

What in life had he not been permitted to keep?

He supposed none of his clients ever stayed. His one goal as a therapist was to render himself obsolete. There were Christmas cards from long-term patients, sometimes even years after their last appointment, and they always made him smile. He was only ever a stage in someone's journey, though.

_ Then, such is the nature of all human bonds. A few shared miles along the way. Why would that suddenly distress me? _

Inhaling, he scraped his sticky hair back from his forehead. His brain was now hurrying to record particular details of the dreams, transcribing them in desperation from short to long term memory: Greg's happy, breathless grin; the comfort of their sex; a safe and easy darkness filled with fireflies and drums. Mycroft attempted to observe the process from above, searching the way he'd search someone else. None of it was an obvious symbol. If a patient had brought him this dream, he'd have asked them to describe Greg. He'd try to ascertain what Greg signified to them, why it was they wanted to connect with him—or at least with the  _ idea _ of him—more closely.

The only thing the dream evoked for him was a gentle and baffling joy.

Sighing, Mycroft pressed his fingertips into the corners of his eyes. He felt like a firefighter attending the hopeless inferno of his own home. Clearly this line of inquiry would not be productive. 

_ Just a bloody dream,  _ he decided forcefully.  _ I miss sex, that is all. Lestrade symbolises any lover. Coffee, shower. No more fruitless self-reflection.  _

Mycroft dragged himself to the edge of his lonely bed, scrubbing his hands over his face one last time. As he stood up, the mattress springs seemed to sigh on his behalf. He would be fine by the time he reached the clinic. He could send some text messages and emails this morning, make a few subtle approaches to old partners and friends. A single half-decent one night stand would put an end to this tedious pining.

As he started up the shower, Mycroft reminded himself with a guilty twinge that things could always be worse. Ananya had her first appointment with Helen Lestrade this morning.

While it seemed uncouth to consider a friend's curse his blessing, it was hard to think what else to call it.

*

The morning passed uneasily. Mycroft had two scheduled clients, both of whom he'd been seeing for several weeks now. Both were tragic victims of their era.

Joe, who arrived at nine thirty, had discovered his fascinating with ladies footwear in early adulthood. His natural shyness had led him to an isolated existence, working night shifts at a supermarket, and so his sexuality had flourished within the lonely walled garden of online pornography. Thirty years ago, his interest might have advanced no further than a weakness for well-dressed women in high heels—but the internet had allowed him to pursue the subject with almost limitless enthusiasm. Over the course of a long decade sitting alone at his computer, his sexual appetite had specialised and narrowed.

The happy arrival of a girlfriend into Joe's life had been soured by an unwelcome discovery. Their first few attempts at sex together had not gone well. Try as he might, Joe could not reach climax with his partner.

Very simply—and very sadly—the young lady was not a shoe.

All of Mycroft's careful work to migrate Joe's sexual and emotional attachments from footwear to other humans could be undone within a few clicks. What had started as a guilty pleasure had become the major support structure in Joe's life. His friends were all members of the footwear community; he'd become a moderator of a forum. It gave him a sense of pride that nothing else ever had. His only comfort after a long shift stacking shelves for minimum wage was to come home and masturbate into his current favourite shoe. Taking that from him would be all well and good, if only modern life had provided something equally supportive and satisfying to replace it. With nothing else to fill the space, Mycroft feared it would never properly come away.

The morning's session was not an easy one. Two days before, Joe's girlfriend had discovered one of his collection hastily stashed beneath his bed. His claim that the six-inch studded black stiletto belonged to his mousy, church-going mother had gone unbelieved. His girlfriend drew the natural conclusion he was cheating on her; his inability to keep an erection suddenly became supporting evidence. The case was now closed.

Over a fraught and emotional ninety minutes, a distressed Joe suggested Mycroft had worsened his problems rather than eased them. He tracked the recent downswing in his mental health to the day he'd started seeing Mycroft, unwilling to recall that his problems had brought him here in the first place. Mycroft offered as much comfort and support as he could, but the truth sat in the room with them as present and ugly as a gorilla: if Joe wanted to change, it would take an astronomical amount of work. Joe no longer knew if he wanted to change. 

He now believed there to be little point in human love.

Within minutes of his departure, Joe was replaced by Abigail. 

Twenty-nine, successful in her career and almost startlingly beautiful, Abigail drifted from one short-lived relationship to the next. Though intelligent and charming, she struggled with the emotional vulnerability required to forge any connection of length. Sex was only ever a few swipes away on Tinder; intimacy was much harder to find.

As the weeks had gone by, Mycroft had realised to his distress that much of the problem did not actually lie with Abigail. Young men of her age were often proudly immature and self-serving. They saw sex on the first date as standard; anything less was a rude rejection of their needs. Programmed by pornography and by Hollywood to view attractive females of their species as sexual entertainment laid on for their pleasure, they rarely offered Abigail conversation or connection. To them, she was for sex, not connection. After a string of distressing relationships, Abigail had now become reluctant to be emotionally vulnerable around new partners—and frankly, it was not without cause.

Though their discussions about the underlying sociological shifts in society were fascinating, the conclusions it often brought them to were bleak. Mycroft hoped he was providing Abigail with some armour against the world by assuring her that the treatment she received was unjust. It felt like dreadfully cold comfort. Each session, when she expressed her simple longing for a husband with whom she could share her interests, she shed a few silent and dignified tears. Mycroft could only sit and wish to shed them for her. She'd made attempts at online dating, but a photograph was usually the first thing requested by new matches. Declining to provide one came across as suspicious.

This week, Abigail had been cornered by a new work colleague who'd taken her polite friendliness for flirting. Since her polite rejection he'd very publicly refused to speak to her, even to answer her work emails. Baffled colleagues were bringing their questions to her, not to him. It was naturally assumed she had  _ done something _ to Graham.

By the time Abigail left him at noon, Mycroft was quite ready to lie down on the floor and lament. It was easy to wonder how the young would ever cope: a world more connected and more efficient than at any time in history, inhabited by the loneliest people ever born. 

In search of comfort, he spent a few minutes answering personal text messages, feeling guilty for doing this at his desk. He'd usually only eat lunch at one o'clock, but retrieved his pasta salad from the staff fridge to give himself an excuse. 

_ Needs must,  _ he thought wearily, responding to another text as he sifted through his tupperware pot.  _ This would taste an awful lot better with wine. _

A familiar knock at the door lifted Mycroft's gaze from his phone. It opened with a squeak. Ananya strode inside, holding a single document in her hand.

"How are you?" Mycroft asked gingerly.

By way of response, Ananya shut the door. She laid her licence to practice beside Mycroft's shredder, stepped out of her Louboutins beside his couch and laid down, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Reluctantly amused, Mycroft wheeled his desk chair across. He brought his pot of pasta salad with him, stirring through it with the tines of his fork.

"Have you dealt with the body yet?" he asked. "Or is that now in my schedule for three o'clock?"

Ananya placed her fingertips on her temples, her eyes shut. 

"Are you  _ certain _ he wants to stay married to her?" she asked.

_ Lord.  _

"We've not worked our way around to why just yet," Mycroft said. "I'm hoping we might get there next week, time permitting." He transferred a little pasta into his mouth. "I imagine she's told you various things about him," he said, as he chewed. "I'd like to give my immediate professional opinion that the man is gentle, patient and loyal, perhaps to a fault in all three cases. I hate to use the phrase  _ her ideal victim _ but I just have."

Ananya made a noise in the back of her throat.

"There must be trauma," she said, overwhelmed. "There must be somewhere. She's just very, very good at not talking. Deflecting questions. Changing topic. I almost don't know why she came, Mycroft. She told me she thinks he's psychotic."

"Does she?" Mycroft said, unimpressed. "On what grounds?"

"He plays games, she says. He manipulates everyone. He makes them feel sorry for him."

"Mm. Unless we see some evidence of hallucination and delusions, I think we'll withhold that particular diagnosis."

"Speaking of which," Ananya said, with a sigh. "Apparently he's now withholding sex."

_ Oh, for the love of... _

"They approached me because  _ Helen  _ has withdrawn from intimacy," Mycroft said, despairing. "Why does she now claim  _ Greg _ is enforcing that?"

"He's moved into the spare room," Ananya replied. Mycroft's heart gave a small, strange flip. "She says he came home from his session with you, started a furious argument, then moved across all his things. He wouldn't hear a word of protest."

Mycroft picked up a small piece of pasta, uncomfortable. Storming off into the spare room sounded far more like something that Helen would do, not Greg.

"I can't provide any clarity as to the truth of that," he said. "I'd be considerably surprised, if it were." He moved the pasta into his mouth. "I did advise him not to push for sex or intimacy at this time, but only to avoid triggering arguments with her."

Ananya looked up at him, weary, watching him eat.

"There must be trauma," she said again. "There  _ must _ be. This is not ordinary behaviour. Not by a long stretch."

_ Mm.  _ "Unless it's all she's ever known," Mycroft pointed out. "Then it would seem entirely ordinary to her."

_ "Aai shapath..." _

"If her foundational experiences of human relationships were all rooted in power games, this might just be the way of the world for her. Does she speak warmly of anyone?"

Sighing, Ananya shook her head.

"Not that I've heard," she said. She closed her eyes again, folding her hands flat upon her stomach. "But it was a first session. It always takes a few for people to open up. If there's trauma, it will be buried. These things have to make their way to the surface slowly. That takes time."

She opened one eye.

"At least she actually came to the appointment," she said. "That must stand for something. Mustn't it?"

Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if Mrs Lestrade considered them appointments or merely captive audiences. He kept the thought to himself, sitting back in his chair.

"There's something I'd like to ask," he said. "If you feel it violates the confidentiality of your patient, that's your prerogative and I won't ask again. But did she mention the affair?"

Ananya wrestled with herself for a moment, her tongue poked into her cheek. 

"As you know about that already," she decided at last, "I don't believe it's unethical for me to say yes."

"Does she show any intention of ending it?" Mycroft asked.

Ananya chose her words. "If her husband was also my patient," she said, eyeing him very seriously, "I couldn't currently reconcile them on my conscience. Not with circumstances as they are."

Mycroft snorted.  _ Of course.  _ He wasn't surprised in the least that she'd ignored him—appalled, irritated, but entirely unsurprised. He withheld a sigh, stirring through his pasta.

"May I be candid with you?" he asked.

Anaya's gaze softened. "Yes, of course."

Mycroft took a moment to put it into words. "I'm not sure I see my task as reconciliation. As his therapist, I don't believe the greatest help I could give is to blindly preserve his marriage. I'd rather strengthen his heart, clear his eyes. Support him in championing his own decisions."

He scraped a little mayonnaise off the side of his fork. 

"Regardless of whether the woman is faithful to him or not," he added, glancing at Ananya, "there are obvious problems with the way she treats him." 

Ananya took this in with a sigh. "That is certainly true."

"I fear it's increasingly true. I'd like him to see things as they are. Not how he hopes they are. I'd like him to feel strong when that day comes. Strong enough to make changes if he wishes."

"Have you found out why he forgave her last time?"

"Not yet," Mycroft admitted. "In truth, we haven't discussed it at all yet. The subject of infidelity is clearly a sore point for him." 

He sighed, picking up another piece of pasta.

"I may have to broach the subject on Wednesday," he said, chewing. "When I spoke to Helen, she was absolutely convinced Greg would end the marriage if he found out. Apparently there's no doubt. I suppose that once I've heard it from his own mouth, then... well, if he ever begins to suspect something... I can remind him of his own reasons."

Ananya hummed. "These people are a mess, Mycroft."

"It's worse than that, I'm afraid. They're our mess." 

"We'll need to be very careful."

"Careful?"

"With what you and I discuss," Ananya said. "If there are things she mentions to me, and somehow her husband suddenly knows about them..."

_God help us,_ Mycroft thought. "Mm. We'll need to avoid that stringently. As a first precaution, I recommend you not tell me too much more. I'll endeavour not to ask in turn."

"Probably wise," Ananya sighed. "Pretend they're entirely separate patients, perhaps. Forget that they're married."

_ If only. _ With a twinge of guilt, Mycroft pushed the memory of this morning's dream from his mind.

"I won't be able to endorse joint sessions until her affair is most definitely over," he said, looking up into Ananya's eyes. "Anything else would be deeply unethical of me. I can't encourage the poor man back into a house where I know a bomb is sitting in the basement."

She nodded once, understanding.

"That means we could have them for a while," she said.

"Mhm. I suppose we both have bills to pay."

Ananya huffed. "I suppose we do."

Mycroft laid his fork across his pasta pot, chewing.

"I had a couple come to see me two years ago," he said. "Both very professional, very pleasant. Very polite to me, if not particularly polite to each other. They hadn't shared any sort of sexual intimacy in at least three years and divorce had been mentioned several times. I had it fixed within a month. Do you know what it took?"

Ananya frowned up from the cushion, curious. "What?"

"Telling the blessed man to brush his teeth," Mycroft said. "It was ninety five percent of the problem."

"You are kidding me."

"I am not. His wife hated kissing him when he hadn't. After a string of rejected kisses in bed at night, he'd begun to worry she no longer found him attractive. He stopped bothering with the other little rituals of grooming we often do for our lover. The hygiene issues got worse. She started to find him repellant, which he picked up on. He closed off in distress. Very quickly, they stopped talking about anything except the children. In  _ her _ eyes, her husband had now transformed into a boorish idiot who never opened up to her, and never kissed her, and if he ever attempted to do, she loathed his breath and his stubble and his smell. They were on the verge of selling the house and separating the family. I prescribed a haircut, a bottle of Listerine, sensate focus and a date together once a fortnight. They sent me the most charming postcard from Riga this summer. Another little one due in early January."

Ananya's eyes crinkled at the edges, her smile soft. 

"Is it often that simple?" she asked.

Mycroft couldn't entirely deny it. He'd met plenty of once happy couples who believed the end was nigh and all was lost, thanks to some silly scrap of doubt or discontentment left to rot. It was amazing what a single truly honest conversation could achieve. Things could be simple, he supposed, if not necessarily easy.

He had a feeling the Lestrade marriage would eventually prove simple, too: a simple and insurmountable clash in compatibility between a man whose greatest turn-on was monogamy and a woman who only wanted what she couldn't have.

"In the end," Mycroft said, with a breath, "it's always a sprint to the finish. How many miles it takes to reach that stage is a different matter."

Ananya clucked her tongue. "We have more than a few miles left with Mr and Mrs Lestrade."

"We do," Mycroft agreed in a murmur, wishing it didn't bring him a queer flush of comfort.  _ I want to see him grow. That is all.  _ "Heaven only knows where they'll take us both."

There came a quiet chime from across the room. It lifted Mycroft's heart with an unsettling swoop; Ananya spotted the flash in his expression before he could hide it.

"Something you were waiting on?" she asked.

"I, ah... I'm having a package left at the house," Mycroft said, wheeling his chair across to his desk. "I assume it's just arrived."

Ananya's forehead creased fondly. "You're a terrible liar," she said. "Who is he?"

Mycroft reached over to retrieve his mobile phone, waking the screen with a quick press of his thumb. He kept a forcefully neutral expression as he scanned the text waiting there for him.

The message didn't cause him excitement, precisely. He wasn't sure he could even say it brought him happiness. It brought him the animal relief of a desperate, suffering smoker finding one squashed, torn and very musty cigarette in the pocket of last winter's coat.

It would not be good, not at all like he needed. But it would do.

"An old friend," he said dimly, relocking his phone. "He's suggested we have dinner this Saturday. Catch-up."

Ananya raised an eyebrow. "Dinner and a show?" she said.

"Ehh. 'Show' might be a little generous."

Ananya's eyes glittered. She sat up on Mycroft's couch, smoothing her hair. "Dinner and the scratching of an itch, then."

"Ask me on Monday," Mycroft replied, pained. He reached for the remains of his lunch. "Dinner and reckless decisions, perhaps."

"I hope they're satisfyingly reckless at least."

"Mhh." Mycroft speared a final piece of pasta, holding in a sigh. "Book me in for ten o'clock, would you?"


	10. Soft Stuff

**Saturday 23rd November**

They met at a nice Italian restaurant in Soho.

Bryan insisted he'd be picking up the cheque.

"For old times' sake," he said with a gratuitous wink, sliding the wine menu across the table. "Choose us something special."

It was a tiresome little piece of bravado. It was also quite possibly a down payment on sex, but Mycroft was content to let it stand. Tiresome days had added up to a tiresome week. A deposit was now hardly needed.

Several years ago, he and Bryan had managed a fairly commendable six months of things. While the man had a remarkable ability to wind Mycroft up—a self-appointed devil's advocate, who would much rather win an argument and sleep alone than lose—he'd aged fairly well and his cock never argued. As a means to an end, he would do.

Mycroft had almost suggested over email they cut straight to the chase and simply meet at Bryan's flat. He had nothing in the fridge for dinner though, nowhere else to be this evening, and far too many thoughts he wished to crowd out of his head. In his hour of need, the universe had swept Bryan once more into his path.

And so Bryan it would have to be.

Smiling thinly, Mycroft picked up the wine menu. 

"How kind," he said. He cast his eyes down the substantial list, searching for something he'd happily drink rather a lot of.

"So how've you been?" Bryan asked. He leant back in his chair, sweeping his floppy fringe off his forehead with one hand. "Things've been pretty great on my end..."

*

Bryan was surprisingly tolerable during the meal. He sailed a little too close to the wind on the subject of the upcoming general election, but Mycroft simply smiled without comment until he took a hint and changed the subject to recent holidays. Bryan enjoyed the chance to brag about his trip to South America over summer; Mycroft enjoyed his baked caramel pears with ice cream. He allowed himself an additional glass of wine than he'd usually drink, pleased to find it left him pink-cheeked and fuzzily horny rather than irritable. 

By the time their coffee arrived, Bryan's pantomime winks and conspiratorial asides were actually becoming quite attractive.

In the backseat of the taxi, his hand appeared slyly on Mycroft's knee. It crept its way upwards over the short journey, even as they continued chatting about a mutual friend, until he was very gently rubbing Mycroft's inner thigh. 

_ Perhaps I judged you too harshly,  _ Mycroft began to think, his insides squirming with the need to bite his lip. It had been years since they were together. They were both different people now, different men, both far more settled in their lives. Bryan would be a reliable source of sex if nothing else.

Mycroft decided he would see how the rest of the night went before making a decision.

Judging from the sparkle in Bryan's eye, it was all going to go rather well.

"Coming in for a few minutes?" Bryan asked when they pulled up outside his flat, his gaze dipping low to Mycroft's mouth. "I could show you my other snaps from South America. I've got loads more than the ones on my phone."

Mycroft could not care less about additional photographs of small churches and capybaras. He wouldn't be looking at a single one of them. 

"That would be delightful," he said. "Thank you."

Bryan paid and tipped the driver. 

He held doors for Mycroft as they headed upstairs.

"So how's sex therapy going these days?" he said, as he showed Mycroft through into the lounge. The wretched man still illuminated the place with neon signs from American bars. With a breath, Mycroft let it slide. He'd come too close to his prize now to care. "Still doing that, are you? You must see all sorts of stuff from week to week."

_ For heaven's sake, let's not talk. I do not want to talk to you. Just bend me over the coffee table before I expire. _

"It's going well," Mycroft said, smiling as politely as he could. "I'm rarely bored, at least."

"Great. That's... yeah, good to hear." Bryan paused, pulling at his lip. "Listen," he said, and he reached for his belt.

As he unbuckled it, Mycroft's soul let out a quiet, needy groan.  _ Yes. Good. Excellent. Let us stop wasting time. _

"I'm glad you got in touch," Bryan said. "Hope you don't mind. But I've got this bloody awful rash—think I picked something up in a brothel in Santa Cruz—would you take a quick look for me?"

*

Mycroft blocked his number as the taxi set off.

_ Some horrendous Bolivian venereal disease,  _ he thought in despair, slumping back in his seat. He pressed two fingers hard between his eyes.  _ God give me strength.  _ Ananya was going to love this one. The line between physician and therapist could certainly blur from time to time, but where pustules of any variety became involved, Mycroft's jurisdiction firmly ended.

_ No wonder you were so eager to meet. _

_ So you could have me examine your souvenir from a brothel, you absolute tosser. _

He'd shouted at Bryan for some time. Now, as the taxi drove him home across London, Mycroft found himself in a state of quietly drunk and strangled fury, imagining various additional things he could have said, not least in defence of his profession. Bryan had never shown particular interest in what Mycroft did for a living.  _ "Sex therapy?"  _ he'd said when first they met, grinning and leaning in with a wink.  _ "Well, I certainly don't need any of that."  _ It had been one of the few shining lights of their relationship. Bryan's ego had handled Mycroft's job like it handled everything else in life: a hearty laugh and a shrug, then a meandering anecdote about itself. Looking back, Mycroft supposed he should have known.

_ God almighty... how did I ever... _

By the time the taxi stopped outside his building, he was no less annoyed. He paid the driver with barely a thought, took the stairs up to his flat, and soon found himself lying on his bed in the darkness as his head gently thundered and swirled.

_ I am drunk,  _ he told himself miserably.  _ I looked at endless pictures of tortoises. I suffered the man's deranged opinions on the European Union.  _

_ And I have nothing at all to show for it. _

It would have been just what he needed tonight. Bryan was lazy in bed but also proud, meaning he'd have been happy to lie back and let Mycroft ride him at length, yet wouldn't go to sleep until he'd seen a howling orgasm.

And Mycroft was desperately in the mood to howl.

His thighs and stomach ached as he thought about it: pinning the stupid man to the floor or to a mattress by his shoulders, grinding together until love and hate were no longer concepts that mattered and there was only closeness, sound, the warmth of somebody else. He wanted to feel hopeful arms gathered around his bare body. He wanted to brush his fingers through chest hair and feel sweat beneath his palms. He wanted someone's mouth to gently kiss, hear their breath break with pleasure, feel their hands pull him closer in hope of more.

Informing Bryan that he was a turgid and discourteous bell-end who needed to take his diseased genitals to a GP, not a therapist, had been the closest thing to intimate connection that Mycroft had experienced in months.

He was tired of dreary masturbation. Orgasm had become no more meaningful than a sneeze. What he needed wasn't orgasm. He suddenly wished he'd at least kissed the pointless arsehole in the car, had hands buried in his hair even just for a moment or two.  _ To be longed for,  _ he thought, close to tears, inhaling hard.  _ Just a little.  _ He almost wished he'd stayed and shouted. The misery of alone was too much. Tomorrow he'd wake up here in this bed by himself, then spend the day in silence on his own, not hearing another human voice until Monday. He wanted someone to need him for more than a single appointment every week. He wanted someone to care and look after him, lay him down in the quiet and show him he could be the centre of the world.

A chime sounded from the pile of keys and spare change that he'd left on the bedside.

Numb, exhausted with his own existence, Mycroft reached out a hand for his phone.

Three messages: a text from his mother that he'd ignored for most of the afternoon, regarding their precise plans for Christmas Day (which must apparently now be fixed a month in advance); a text from an unknown number, beginning  _ 'I know you're angry but please at least don't mention the rash to anyone, I have a reput—'  _ and which Mycroft summarily deleted; a third text which must have arrived while he was castigating Bryan, its alert lost within the fray.

_ [GL - 21:53] Not gonna be able to look you in the eye while we talk about these stories. Just to warn you :P _

Mycroft heard every word as clearly as if they'd been spoken—as if the man were lying next to him in bed, bright-eyed in the darkness.  _ How can she not adore you?  _ he thought, his heart straining.  _ How can she bear to let you out of her arms for even a moment? _

The professional reply would be an assurance that any discussion would take place entirely within Greg's comfort zone, no more in-depth or personal than he wished it to be.

_ [MH - 22:36] Sure I can arrange some sort of head covering. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 22:36] Pillowcases perhaps. - M _

Greg's reply came in seconds; he was awake.

_ [GL - 22:36] For me or for you? :P _

_ [MH - 22:37] For both of us. I wouldn't want you to feel self-conscious. - M _

_ [GL - 22:37] Good idea :) looking forward to it _

Mycroft smiled, rubbing the side of his phone. He wished he had some excuse to continue talking. It was wonderful not to feel alone, even just for a minute or two through a screen.

Greg began to type again.

_ [GL - 22:37] I didn't wake you up, did I? _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:37] Sorry if I did :( _

_ [MH - 22:38] Not at all. Something of a night owl. Have the stories surprised you? - M _

_ [GL - 22:38] Yeah, haha. A few times. Thought it would be all "quivering manhoods"... nope! Just cock lol _

Huffing, Mycroft coaxed himself into a sitting position. He mentally composed a reply as he opened up the buttons of his waistcoat, then quickly typed and sent it.

_ [MH - 22:39] Modern erotica very much at ease with cock. Would you have preferred quivering manhoods? I have some older titles. They're generally a little more demure. _

_ [GL - 22:40] No no, I'm at ease with cock. Just getting used to it, that's all :P  _

_ [MH - 22:40] Mm. Often the way. - M _

_ [GL - 22:40] I can't even tell if that's an anal quip xDD _

_ [MH - 22:41] Shroedinger's anal sex quip. Whether I meant it or not depends entirely on whether you laugh. - M _

_ [GL - 22:41] Oh jesus xDDD  _

Mycroft could hear him laughing as if he were here. He could imagine every detail of it, every crinkle around those flashing black eyes. 

It was wildly distressing.

It hurt to realise. He'd much rather have spent this evening in his office with Greg Lestrade, simply talking and drinking coffee, than wasting all his hopes in some restaurant with Bryan. It had been a ludicrous idea, rose-tinted beyond the point of sanity. His ex-lovers had been demoted to ex-lovers for good reason.

On a night like this, he would have kept a man like Greg awake into the smallest hours. Cherished him. Adored him, every inch of him, over and over until he sobbed. Made the act of making love into an act of worship, sung pleasure into the man's soul until no tiny space was left for doubt or distress to ever grow.

Leaving his pyjama shirt unbuttoned at his chest, Mycroft laid back against his pillows and indulged his aching heart a little longer.

_ [MH - 22:42] Am I keeping you awake? - M _

_ [GL - 22:42] No :) fellow night owl... sorry if you were busy _

_ [MH - 22:42] I wasn't busy. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 22:43] Has anything else surprised you? With your homework, that is. - M _

It took Greg a minute or two to reply, though not through lack of effort. He seemed to start and then withdraw several responses before settling. 

_ [GL - 22:45] Thought they'd just be dirty/fun but they're kinda sweet. Longterm couples etc. Didn't really know people wrote stuff like this _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:45] Soft stuff _

Mycroft smiled to himself in the darkness. He chose material for his clients with exceptional care; it was reassuring to see he'd been successful in this instance. His digital library contained vast amounts of both dirty and fun for those in need of it, and he'd read all of them himself several times. 

Greg Lestrade needed neither dirty nor fun. He needed comfort. 

It was a very different thing.

_ [MH - 22:46] Erotica can often be very emotional. It's much more than just written pornography. - M _

_ [GL - 22:47] Do you read a lot of this stuff? _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:47] Professionally I mean _

_ [MH - 22:47] For pleasure, too. - M _

_ [GL - 22:47] Does it ruin you for real life? _

_ [MH - 22:49] Having a better idea of how we'd like a lover to treat us can make us less willing to continue an unsatisfying relationship. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 22:49] Sometimes no sex is preferable to unhappy or unwise sex. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 22:50] And fiction is a comforting and safe outlet for our sexuality in those times when we don't have a partner. - M _

A long time seemed to pass before Greg replied. Mycroft spent it reading quietly back through their messages, hoping to god that Greg was deleting them with due diligence.

_ [GL - 22:52] Would I make things weird if I asked about you? _

Mycroft smiled a little, suspecting what was about to be queried.

_ [MH - 22:52] Curiosity no sin. I am currently unattached, if that's what you're wondering. - M _

_ [GL - 22:52] Haha. You're good :) Sorry if that's too curious _

_ [MH - 22:52] Not at all. Why did you want to know? - M _

_ [GL - 22:53] Not really sure. Think its just nice getting to know you _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:53] As a friend I mean. Therapists and patients can be friends right? _

_ [MH - 22:53] I don't see why not. :) - M _

_ [GL - 22:53] So can I ask another question? :) _

_ [MH - 22:54] You can ask any questions you wish. I'll tell you if I'm ever unable to answer. - M _

_ [GL - 22:54] How come you're still single? _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:54] Sorry. That looks really rude now I've sent it :( _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:54] I don't mean to suggest you're not a catch or anything _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:54] I just mean... it must be easier for you to make relationships work. Sort out problems etc _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:55] Does that make sense? Sorry if that was too far :( _

Rather charming, Mycroft thought, to hear he might still be considered a catch. He couldn't help but wish they'd met in different circumstances. In some universe where Greg was not his patient, nor married, they might have been terribly happy: two men who longed for touch, for closeness and conversation, finding it together in their forties.

He supposed that even in this world, it was a blessing to have met.

_ [MH - 22:55] I didn't take it as rude in any way. Please don't worry. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 22:55] Potential partners often unsettled by my profession. They find it difficult to be at ease with me. I find it difficult to prove I'm not analysing them. - M _

_ [GL - 22:56] Really? People are put off because you're a sex therapist? :( _

_ [MH - 22:56] I believe it's a factor. - M _

_ [GL - 22:56] Can't really get my head around that. Surely it would be reassuring _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:56] Being with someone whos heard it all, I mean _

Mycroft's heart gave a nervous pull. He took a moment to let it settle, trying to think of something light to say—something which didn't reveal far too much of his soul. Nobody wanted to know their therapist was lonely with no end in sight. It would hardly inspire confidence in his skills.

_ [MH - 22:57] Alas. None of humanity's champions have yet proven worthy. - M _

_ [GL - 22:57] I love your sense of humour xDDD _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:57] Just wish I had a workmate I could set you up with _

"Lord..." Mycroft murmured, typing

_ [MH - 22:57] Tremendously sweet of you. - M _

_ [GL - 22:57] Nah. You're nice :) You deserve a decent fella _ _   
_ _ [GL - 22:58] So these stories are an outlet for you too? _

_ [MH - 22:58] Important to practice what I preach. :) Which one are you reading? - M _

_ [GL - 22:58] Haha. Erm, the one with the single dad and the school teacher... _

_ [MH - 22:59] Ah yes. That one is rather lovely. What do you like about it? - M _

_ [GL - 23:00] The sex isn't really about sex. It's about needing each other _ _   
_ _ [GL - 23:00] but sex is the only way they can say it _

Mycroft laid his phone down on the mattress. He reached his fingertips up to his eyes, rubbing until the heat had eased.

Greg waited for him to finish.

_ [GL - 23:01] Hey. Can I ask... is life ever actually like this? :( Or should I not get my hopes up lol _

_ [MH - 23:03] The connection has to be right. But I believe it can be, yes. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 23:03] Perhaps I should leave you to read and get some rest? - M _

_ [GL - 23:03] Sure. Yeah. Suppose its getting late :) _ _   
_ _ [GL - 23:03] Nice to chat _

_ [MH - 23:04] It is. My inbox is always open to you. - M _

_ [GL - 23:04] Which one should I read next? _

_ [MH - 23:04] If memory serves there's a nice one between a university professor and his best student. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 23:04] A little taboo but very touching. I think you might like it. - M _

_ [GL - 23:05] Found it. Thanks _

_ [MH - 23:05] Have a pleasant day tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday. - M _

_ [GL - 23:05] Yeah. You too. Bye for now x _

_ [MH - 23:06] Goodnight Greg. Sleep well. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 23:06] Empty your sentbox. x - M _

_ [GL - 23:09] xx _


	11. Day of Rest

**Sunday 24th November**

"M'seeing a therapist now," Greg said, with a hopeful sideways glance. "Wednesday nights. Been a couple of times already."

Lisa's face opened at once into a smile.

"Oh,  _ Greg," _ she said, beaming up at him. "I'm so  _ glad." _

It was Sunday morning. They'd brought the kids to Ruislip Woods for a walk and fresh air, play some fetch with the dog and get an ice cream from the café if they were good. The dog and the kids had vanished off along the path some time ago, desperate to find out if their den from last time was still here. Ed was busy working this weekend; Helen was back at home, probably still in bed. 

"Is she going with you?" Lisa asked, as Greg slid both his hands into his pockets. November was pulling no punches this year, gorgeously bright but utterly freezing. They'd said the winter to come would be the coldest they'd all seen in a decade.

"Sort of," Greg replied. "We had our first session together, but he reckoned we need some time separately first. So Hel's been moved to somebody else at the same practice. I'm still with him."

"Him?" Lisa noted, intrigued. "Is that rare, being a male marriage counsellor? Or is that just me?"

"I don't really know. Maybe? He seems to know what he's on about at least."

"What's his name?

Greg's heart gave a little tug. He liked being able to say it; it was nice, sharing with someone else that this was happening. It made it feel more real somehow.

"Dr Holmes," he said. "First names, though. Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" Lisa looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Unusual."

"Yeah. He's... kinda one in a million, to be honest. Don't think I've ever met anybody like him. He's not like I thought a sex therapist would be."

"Suppose we all imagine a blonde in a nice white blouse and a pencil skirt, don't we?" Lisa mused. "Glasses she takes off and bites when she's thinking. That sort of thing."

It flashed guiltily through the back of Greg's heart that he wouldn't  _ mind _ seeing Mycroft slip off his glasses and bite them. 

He should probably spare his little sister that particular detail, though.

"Don't think he'd suit a pencil skirt," he said, and Lisa laughed. Greg grinned a little, looking down at her. "He's great though. He's looking after me. Says we're gonna work on my confidence, see if I can reconnect with myself a bit... yeah, he's fantastic. M'really glad."

"I couldn't be happier for you," Lisa said, still beaming. "You know that? I'm so pleased you took my advice. Genuinely, Greg. It'll change the world for you."

"Fingers crossed," Greg said. He inhaled, letting the forest and the sunshine fill his lungs. It had been a long while since a weekend felt like this—quietly, effortlessly happy. "I think it's kinda helping already, if I'm honest. Just knowing he's there. Knowing I'm not... I don't know, spiralling the drain with nobody to pull me out. It's like you said. There's suddenly a lifeguard at the pool."

Lisa grinned, butting him on the upper arm. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She was tiny and rounded like their mum had been; the kids would all be taller than her soon.

"Told you," she said. "Best thing you can ever do for yourself."

"Yeah. M'glad I made the call. Hel's been a bit... prickly since we started, but she might just need a few weeks to get used to it."

"She's seeing someone else, did you say?"

"Same place. Not sure why. Maybe he didn't have space in his diary."

"Mhm." Lisa smiled. "Good, though. Both of you getting help."

"Yeah," Greg said. "Yeah, it  _ is _ good..." 

They walked without chatting for a while side by side, Greg comfortable in his sister's quiet. She was the only one among his siblings who didn't leave him feeling a bit exhausted after seeing them—a bit inadequate. The crunch of the leaves beneath their boots felt like a sort of conversation, a comfy back and forth without needing words.

They passed a few dog walkers who probably took them for a couple, sharing smiles and friendly good mornings.  _ Why don't we do this every weekend?  _ Greg started thinking, happy in his soul just to be out somewhere with someone.  _ Maybe bring Hel next time. It'd do her good. _

Thoughts drifting, Greg found himself wanting to confide.

"He, erm... he told me Hel's got some stuff to work on," he said. "Mycroft, I mean. He says there's some sort of emotional blockage. Makes it hard for her to connect. Don't say anything to her," he added, spotting the look on his sister's face. "Please."

"I won't," Lisa said at once. "Of course I won't. None of my business."

"He only told me so I'd know to give her space for a while. He said she... she kinda doesn't understand that she's hurting yet. If we try and tell her she is, she'll just lock up and tell us to piss off, then that's it."

"I won't say a word, Greg. I promise. I wouldn't dare."

"It's... I don't know, something in her childhood. But they're gonna try and work on that with her. So..."

Lisa nodded, lowering her eyes to the leaf-strewn path. "Quite a bit to work on," she said.

Greg's stomach gave a guilty squeeze. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Yeah, I know."

"If I'm honest, there's... quite a  _ lot  _ to..."

"I know, Lis."

Lisa glanced up at him in apology, biting the corner of her lip. "They're gonna have to start at the start, aren't they?"

Greg withheld a sigh. In truth, he'd been trying not to think about that. A few hours in the company of Helen's family was always enough for certain things about Helen to start making uncomfortable sense. The closest thing to affection they ever showed each other was highly observant mockery. They spent their time discussing the misfortunes of anyone and everyone they knew, glorying in every grisly detail. All other conversations died on the vine, uninteresting to them, unfruitful. 

If Helen's new therapist was planning to turn her into a kind and compassionate person, they'd have to strip out an entire childhood and begin all over again. She could be vicious sometimes—Greg knew that better than anyone—but it was load-bearing viciousness. 

God alone knew what would happen if someone tried to wrench it out.

_ If she'll even let them,  _ Greg thought, pushing his tongue behind his teeth.

"Suppose it's out of my hands," he said, as he gently let go of the thought. He tried a bracing smile. "I led the horse to water, anyway."

Lisa nodded, her smile not quite right—a little flat behind her eyes. "Professionals'll do the rest," she said, reassuringly. "Just keep showing up every week. Your Mycroft'll take good care of you, I'm sure."

_ Christ,  _ Greg thought, flushing.  _ If only. _

"Did you say he's working on your confidence?" Lisa asked as they walked.

"He's gonna try."

"Good. M'glad about that."

Something in her tone made Greg wonder. He frowned slightly, curious, and nudged his sister with his elbow. "Why?"

"Just sounds like he's got everything in hand," she said, bright and fond. "That's all."

Greg gently increased the weight of his frown. "D'you think I  _ need  _ some extra confidence?"

Lisa held for a moment more. With an apologetic breath, and a glance that suggested she might regret this, she buckled.

"Only in certain circumstances," she said. Before Greg could ask, she specified. "Only in... well,  _ Helen _ circumstances."

Greg's heart gave a nervous twist. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean... oh no. I've started now. Don't hate me for this, will you?"

"M'not gonna hate you. Go on."

Lisa hesitated, preparing her words. "I mean she bullies you a bit," she said. "Sometimes she bullies you a lot."

_ "Bullies _ me?" Greg wasn't sure if he should laugh or not. "Lis, we're not at school."

"I know," she said, pained. "I know we're not. But... well, she acts like it. She always has, if I'm honest. Sometimes she behaves like she hit that nasty stage at thirteen where everyone else in the world is pondlife but she never grew out of it. She's... very selfish sometimes, Greg. Very nasty. And she really does take you for granted."

Lisa had never spoken like this before—not once, not even during the worst times. Greg found himself paralysed into silence, walking along at her side with his hands in his pockets and his heart in his throat.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know that was... well, I suppose I can't really take it back now." She gazed up at him, quiet and sad. "For what it's worth... I did mean it. I'm not just being awful."

"It's okay," Greg managed. He drew a breath, scrabbling in his head for something to say. "You're not wrong."

"Are you angry with me?" Lisa asked.

"No. No, m'not angry. Don't think that, Lis." After a few yards of painful silence, Greg realised what it was prickling at the back of his mind. "I don't know if giving me confidence will sort things."

"No?" his sister said, carefully.

"No. If anything, that'd be..."  _ I'd just be screaming back at her. That'd bloody make it worse.  _ "You've met her," Greg mumbled, his shoulders stiffening as he tried to shrug them. "I can't exactly turn round and just command her to stop having a go at me. There's not enough confidence in the world to pull that off."

"Well... no," Lisa said, with an awkward glance. "Might help in other ways, though."

Greg's heart skipped a beat. "What like?" he said.

Lisa pushed her hands into her pockets, looking reluctantly away between the trees. "I don't know," she said. "Might get you thinking."

"About what?" Greg said.

His sister said nothing, biting the corner of her lip. She took a breath that went nowhere and shook her head.

Greg stopped on the path, gently caught hold of her arm and turned her round to face him.

"Oi," he murmured. Lisa braced herself, swishing something about the inside of her cheek. "Thinking about what? I don't mind you being honest. But give me all of it, will you? Not just half."

Sighing, Lisa looked up into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I know you chose her. Twice. I support your choices, Greg. In everything. You know I do. But... Christ, you don't half deserve better."

Greg's heart strained. "Than Helen?"

In silence, looking sorry, Lisa nodded.

Greg let it sink beneath his surface. It wasn't an enormous surprise—hearing her say it, perhaps, but not finding out she felt it. Lisa usually got on brilliantly with anyone, but she always seemed happier on those social occasions when Greg came by himself. Things always seemed easier and more natural without Helen there. Helen didn't really know how to family; she was hard work, even for Lisa.

Greg had the strange sensation that something small had just been planted in him, something he wouldn't see again for quite some time—but he'd be unable to get of when it returned.

Inhaling, he put a hand on each of Lisa's upper arms.

"S'alright," he said. She watched his face with care, her gaze gentle. "Honestly. It's okay. You've got a right to your opinion. You've always wanted the best for me, and... and well, it's... y-yeah, she could give me a break sometimes. I'll say that."

Lisa's mouth pulled. 

"She treats you like a dog sometimes," she murmured. "Even after... well, after were good to her. Very good."

Greg's pulse stuttered with discomfort.

"That's in the past," he said. "We agreed. We've all forgotten about that."

"I know we have. I know, and I'm sorry. It's just..." His sister shook her head, dropping her gaze to the middle of his chest. "She should be  _ grateful  _ you forgot. She should act like you gave her a second chance she didn't deserve. And if your therapist can give you just a bit more confidence, then... I don't really think you should ask Helen to give you a break. I think you should ask her to give you a reason to stay, Greg. And if she refuses... well, no good reason to stay is a good reason to go."

Greg's mouth opened. He closed it quickly, glanced along the path ahead of them for the kids, then leant down and spoke in undertones.

"Listen," he said, his heart banging against the back of his throat. "I know you're saying this 'cause you care. And I want you to be honest with me, but... J-Jesus, Lisa. You're talking about  _ divorce." _

Lisa held his gaze. "Sometimes it's the right thing to do."

_ God almighty,  _ Greg thought. "What if you and Ed had thought like that?" he demanded. "Where would you all be now? How would the kids have coped?"

"It wasn't the right thing for us," Lisa said. "Our therapist helped us decide that. She worked with us together, got us talking and kept us talking. Your Mycroft's trying to give you space and confidence for a reason. I think you should let him."

"Lisa—"

"I know I've shocked you. I didn't mean to. And I'll support you and be there for you, no matter what you do..." Lisa's expression creased. "But Helen didn't deserve you in the first place. She  _ definitely _ didn't deserve you back."

Greg's jaw set. It took a second for him to speak, forcing back several things he knew better than to say.

"It was complicated," he said, staring into his sister's eyes. "You  _ know  _ it was complicated."

"Helen should remember that," Lisa said. She flushed, lifting her chin. "She should thank her lucky stars every morning. Most men wouldn't've done what you did. Even without all that, Greg, marriage means you're meant to be number one. No questions, no conditions. That's the whole point."

Greg said nothing, his chest aching with distress.

"Helen doesn't treat you like her number one," Lisa said. "She treats you like the bottom of the bag, even after everything that happened, and I... I hate it sometimes. God, I just...  _ hate _ it..."

Drawing a breath, she lowering her gaze to the path between them.

"There," she mumbled. "I've said my piece now. You can forget it, if you want. I wouldn't blame you."

Greg swallowed without a sound. He wouldn't forget.

"How long have you felt like this?" he asked, searching his sister's face.

Lisa pulled at her lip. "A while," she admitted. She looked up at him with reluctance, her gaze quiet. "She's always welcome, wherever you want her to be. I'd never treat her badly. She's part of the family, so long as you say she is, and there'll always be a place at my table. I just wish she'd realise she's lucky."

_ God. _

"Lis," Greg murmured, lost for words. "I... I get what you're saying, but... Hel and I have come through a lot now. If I give up now, I'll have wasted the last four years."

"Better than wasting the next forty..." Lisa sighed. "I always used to think you'd... I don't know. Some nice guy."

Greg's heart clenched. "Lisa—"

"You were always happy when you had a boyfriend," she went on, gazing up at him. "Some of them were so  _ sweet _ with you. Do you remember when you went travelling with Tom? I almost thought the two of you wouldn't come back. Just keep on roaming the world forever, never growing old."

"Lisa, that was... I-I mean, that was fifteen years ago. I was a totally different person."

"I know," Lisa said. "I  _ know _ it was. You were happy, though."

"Everyone was happy in their twenties," Greg said. His chest felt weirdly tight, as if the air didn't contain enough oxygen anymore. "Nothing hurts when you're twenty. Money drops out of the sky. It's a lot bloody harder in your forties."

"Doesn't mean it's impossible," Lisa said. She hesitated, hopeful. "Does Dr Holmes know about all that?"

"Erm..." _ I was up until one AM reading the gay erotica he's sent me. _ "We've not... y'know, gone into detail about... anyway, what's to know? I'm married to a woman. Doesn't matter anymore."

Lisa seemed to sense that she was fighting a losing battle. She held something back, settled for a smile instead, and reached up to loop her arms around Greg's neck.

Greg held onto her, rubbing the back of her puffy purple coat.

"M'sorry," she said softly in his ear. "None of it's my business. She's always welcome and I won't talk about it again."

Greg's heart pulled. 

"Talk about it," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He held his sister a little more tightly. "About anything. I'd rather you be honest."

"M'glad you're in therapy."

"Yeah. Yeah, me too."

"I hope your Mycroft gives you what you need."

_ Christ.  _ "H-He's looking after me, Lis. He'll get me sorted."

An excited call came from the path up ahead. 

"Uncle Greg! Uncle Greg, can you help us move a really big branch? We've found the den but it's all caved in!"

Lisa sighed in Greg's ear. He smiled a little, giving her a final squeeze. 

"Duty calls," he said, letting her go. As he backed away along the path, he added, "Don't think you've upset me. You haven't. I promise."

Lisa gave him a pained look across the increasing gap between them. 

"You don't think I'm a bitch, do you?" she said.

"No, Lis. You'll have to try harder than that."  _ Ask Hel. She'll give you lessons.  _ "Buy me an ice cream at the cafe. Then we're fine."

*

They saw him off from the front window of their house that afternoon, Lisa holding up the nets so all four kids could wave like crazy. Greg waved back at them all, grinning, and started up the engine. The car always seemed tremendously quiet after Lisa and the kids had been in it. Even their little squabbles over toys and the tablet were nice to hear. He didn't know if he'd have coped with it twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, but he did miss them all when they were gone.

On the main road, waiting at the lights, he turned some music on. It wasn't going to drown out his thoughts, but at least he'd have something to think by.

He almost wasn't sure where to start.

_ "She bullies you"  _ seemed as good a place as any. It had niggled in the back of Greg's brain all day. There hadn't really been an opportunity to reopen the discussion, try to explain that in a marriage with a strong personality like Helen, the best course was often appeasement. When Greg wanted something badly enough, he put his foot down. Seeing a therapist was a good example of that. But a lot of the time, he just didn't feel things as strongly as Helen did. If Helen bullied him, it was because that seemed a better than option fighting around the clock about every tiny decision.

Then, Greg supposed she could be vicious about things. Sometimes, when he agreed with her for the sake of peace, it only seemed to make her more angry.

_ "She should be grateful you forgot." _

That was worth thinking about, too.

Several roads and several songs went by before Greg realised he had no counter-argument to make. He'd read books when they got back together, books called things like  _ Learning to Trust Again.  _ He'd clicked around on the internet and found experiences from people who'd survived an affair, and he'd studied them to figure out what made the difference. He could still remember an Agony Aunt column in a magazine he'd stumbled across, where a woman who'd had an affair which she deeply regretted was now struggling to regain her husband's trust. He demanded the right to check her phone whenever he liked. He kept tabs on her at all hours. He'd recently decided he wanted to come into her office and meet all her male colleagues, to make sure they wouldn't try anything. His wife was starting to hate him for it. She felt lonely; she missed her lover.

Greg had sworn to himself he wouldn't be that. Wouldn't put Helen through that. If they were doing this, they were starting a new page together, a new story, and he was willing to put the work in to forget.

But.

He'd hoped that Helen wouldn't forget.

_ Christ, man,  _ he breathed to himself, overtaking a delivery van with care.  _ What exactly do you want? Her sobbing on her knees once a week, crying that she's sorry she shamed you? Get over yourself. _

At the next set of traffic lights, Greg reached across and tapped the search bar on his music app. The second he typed the letter J, it offered him Jess Glynne. He'd listened to this track about a hundred times this week.

His sister's voice stirred through the back of his mind as he drove. 

_ "No good reason to stay is a good reason to go."  _

He  _ had _ reasons to stay. Loads of them. A joint bank account, for a start. His own pride for another. He hadn't gone into this process with a therapist only to get divorced and end up alone. He'd done it in the hope he could be happy. It didn't seem that much to ask.

Christ, but it was easy to feel lonely.

When he was with people, busy at work or with his family, it didn't really cross his mind. He felt like the same easy-going and happy idiot he'd always been. The second they walked away, this feeling came rolling back in—this awful, aching, whimpering feeling. Some days he wanted to go scratch at people's doors and beg them to let him inside. He checked his phone almost constantly, scrolling through Facebook and watching people argue over Brexit, just so he could see human voices. He was reading Mycroft's bloody stories into the small hours every night. He'd had a nervous browse on Amazon for others to buy, then realised they'd show up on the credit card statement. Explaining to Helen why he was buying gay romance novels in the middle of the night would be as painful as peeling off every inch of his skin. She'd been sharp since he moved into the spare room, quick to get suspicious. Even conversations about the TV could veer off the road, crash and burst into flames within an instant. He knew she'd been into the spare room at least twice, searching through his things while he was at work. He'd come home to find subtle differences in how he'd left them. Christ alone knew what she was expecting to find.

So their time together wasn't exactly breezy right now. 

_ It'll change,  _ Greg told himself, drawing a deep breath.  _ I can't just throw my hands up and say fuck it, not when we've gone through all this. _

_ I didn't leave before.  _

_ Can't just shrug and leave now. _

A few miles from home, Greg checked the time on his phone. He'd told Helen he would be out all day; it was barely even three. With a dizzy sense of relief he pulled into a Costa drive thru, bought the biggest size Americano they sold, parked up and let himself take nearly an hour to drink it, listening to Jess Glynne and reading on his phone. He felt guilty sometimes, taking chances like this just to sit on his own for an hour and have some peace. 

But he'd found it easier lately. Something told him that Mycroft would approve, or at the very least understand. It was a Sunday and Greg wanted to rest. That surely wasn't such an unreasonable thing.

Perhaps this was tragic, and perhaps it wouldn't last—but each time Helen started warming up her engines, Greg now told himself it was never all that long until Wednesday.

Taking a drink of coffee, content in the sunshine streaming quietly through his windshield, Greg wondered if Mycroft had any idea what he meant to people. If he realised how often they all thought about him.

_ Must be a hell of a feeling. _

_ Knowing you're needed like that. _


	12. The Exception

**Wednesday 27th November**

Mycroft emerged from his office with kettle in hand, a few minutes before seven o'clock, to find genial laughter emanating from reception.

Smiling, he made his way along the corridor.

Anthea was lingering by her desk, attired for the heavy rain in her belted red mac with a pocket-sized umbrella at the ready. She'd adopted an almost lavishly come-hither pose, leaning with her hip slightly cocked to one side, though it didn't seem to be working in the least. Greg Lestrade remained some distance across the waiting room from her, still holding the men's magazine she'd interrupted. His smile was adorably polite.

His heart squeezing, Mycroft cleared his throat.

Anthea uncurled at once from her seductive stance. She turned around to find him standing there and broke into a smile. 

"Dr Holmes," she said, delighted. "Your seven o'clock has arrived."

"So I see," Mycroft said, stealing an amused glance towards his patient. Greg grinned back, visibly relieved by the rescue. "You're here rather late, Anthea, aren't you? I thought you left us at six."

"I had some filing to finish," Anthea said, airily. "I'll also admit I hoped the rain might have eased off by now. No such luck."

"Ah, well," Mycroft said. "The sooner you're out in it, the sooner you're home." He turned his smile to his client. "Good evening, Greg. Would you care for a coffee?"

Greg put his magazine aside, smiling too. "Love one," he said, as he got to his feet. "Thanks very much."

"I shan't be a minute, then. Do go through."

Greg nodded, gave Anthea a nervous parting smile, then moved away along the corridor.

Anthea waited until they'd heard the door of Mycroft's office close.

 _"Please_ tell me he's one of the sex addicts," she said, pulling the corner of her lip between her teeth. "I'll take him off your hands, Dr Holmes. He'll be just fine with me."

Mycroft swiftly swallowed a smile. 

"I should not," he said, "have to warn an intelligent and attractive young lady of the dangers of selecting her boyfriends from a therapist's waiting room."

"Oh, no. He's a public masturbator, isn't he? That's a shame."

"He is not," Mycroft said. "Not to my knowledge, at least. And regardless of whether he is, Anthea, he remains both married and entirely out of your reach."

She heaved a small sigh, resigning herself to her loss. 

"Well, if he changes his mind on the married part," she said, "consider me first on the reserve list." Unfolding her umbrella, she cast Mycroft a sideways glance. "Unless I'm second already, of course."

Mycroft did not smile. 

"Remind me to refresh your professional ethics training in January," he said.

Her eyes glittered. 

"Good night, doctor," she chirped, slipping out of the door, and Mycroft permitted himself a small shake of his head. The girl had no shame, quite to her advantage. She was the sort of pencil-skirted and doe-eyed young woman often coveted by young men, who rarely had any idea of the devastation she could wreak upon their lives without even blinking. It was a wonder she didn't dismiss her paramours by handing them one of the clinic's business cards.

Mycroft let himself into his office to find Greg already sitting on the couch. He'd taken off his jacket and hung it up, apparently eager to get going. 

"How've you been?" Greg asked, his smile bright and hopeful.

Suddenly enjoying his week, Mycroft closed the door.

*

"Did you think much about marriage as a child?"

Greg considered the question for some time, his eyes closed and his hands folded gently on his stomach. Mycroft watched them rise and fall with his breath.

"As a teenager, maybe," Greg said. Mycroft waited, letting his thoughts take further shape in the quiet. He'd laid Greg down on the couch for this, pulled a chair close to his side. The slow rattle of rain upon the windows was deeply soothing. "Remember one of my brothers swearing blind to us all he'd never get married. He'd decided it was gross and girls are stupid. He's got four kids now."

Mycroft smiled a little. "But you didn't feel that way?"

"No. No, I don't think so." Greg rubbed at the bone in his wrist, tracing his middle fingertip around it. "Kinda liked the idea by the time I was a teenager," he said. "Someone all to myself. Y'know? Everybody wants that."

"Do I recall that your family was quite large?"

Greg huffed, smiling. His eyes stayed shut. 

"Six of us," he said. "Eight, counting Mum and Dad. Don't know how they coped to be honest."

"Would you say you enjoyed being part of a large family?"

"Erm, not particularly. I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why?"

"Kinda noisy. You don't stand out much, one of six." Greg hesitated, his expression quietening. "If you don't shout, nobody really remembers you're there. I had a birthday forgotten once."

 _Lord._ "How old were you?"

"Seven, I think? Seven or eight. I spent the day thinking they were playing a joke. Thought I'd come home from school to find a surprise party or something." Greg opened his eyes, smiling awkwardly. "It's not that tragic. Honestly. We laughed about it."

Mycroft resisted the overpowering urge to challenge this at once. "How did your parents react once they realised?"

"Embarrassed?" Greg said. "We did it at the weekend instead. It's not a big deal."

"Were your siblings' birthdays ever forgotten?" Mycroft asked.

Greg hesitated, glancing away. "No," he admitted, "but... well, I was three out of six. I wasn't as loud as the big two or the younger ones. If it was gonna be anyone, it would be me." He seemed almost apologetic to have brought it up, fiddling with the cuff of his soft maroon jumper. "I kinda liked being the one that was easy, to be honest. It was my thing."

Mycroft's heart strained, distressed for the little boy who'd become the man in front of him—a little boy who considered his best feature to be how conveniently forgettable he was.

"I could've told them earlier in the day," Greg said, looking up at him. "It was my fault for not saying anything."

 _God help me. You were seven._ Mycroft opened his mouth to try and express it somehow, perhaps in slightly less appalled terms—then noticed the look of anxiety in Greg's eyes, fixed upon his face in expectation of admonishment.

Swallowing, Mycroft gentled his expression. A moment's wild imagination flashed through his mind: reaching out to cup Greg's cheek, stroke the nervous tension from around his mouth with a thumb.

Keeping his hands upon his lap, Mycroft attempted to offer the same comfort with simply his voice.

"When we're children," he said softly, watching Greg hang on his every word, "we are enormously reliant upon our parents. Not simply for our material needs, but for our emotional needs too. In a large family, particularly if your siblings were prepared to be a little more boisterous in pursuit of your parents' attention, it's understandable why you opted for harmony. Even at a cost to you."

Greg's fingers curled beneath the cuff of his jumper. "I could've been boisterous too," he said. "If I'd wanted it enough."

 _You shouldn't have needed to be,_ Mycroft thought—then forced himself to inhale, trying to sympathise with two parents raising six children. It was easy for a childless man to sit here and dispense airy suggestions into the past, proclaiming that Greg's parents should simply have magicked additional time out of the ether to spend on him. _I cannot create you a new childhood,_ he thought. _But I can supply what is long overdue._

He smiled gently, holding Greg's gaze.

A quiet smile was returned at once. Visible relief warmed Greg's eyes.

"In a family of eight," Mycroft said, "there is only ever one goal during childhood. To survive it mostly intact. I commend you for achieving that."

Greg huffed, enjoying it. His eyes seemed so much brighter for their depth of dark brown. "I was a bit of a doormat," he mumbled.

"And I was an intolerable little tosser who thought he'd own the world," Mycroft said, prompting a broad grin. "These things can be adjusted very nicely in adulthood. Sometimes, it's enough just to realise there are other forms of family than the one in which we were raised. Our childhoods are beginnings, not blueprints. We can proceed to a path entirely of our own making."

"Thank god."

"Mm. Very much so." Smiling, Mycroft reached out a hand and brushed it over Greg's eyes, guiding them to close. "Thank you."

Greg shuffled on the couch, amused, and consented to relax once more. His hands folded comfortably on his stomach.

Mycroft let him settle, brushing aside the inner longing to stroke his forehead. 

"How would you describe your parents' marriage?" he asked.

"Christ," Greg mumbled. "Busy."

"Parenting?"

"Mhh. One disaster after another."

"Did they seem happy together?"

Greg was quiet for a while, putting together an answer. "They didn't fight or anything," he said at last. "Don't think they had the time or energy to fight. They just sort of... I don't know. I almost didn't think of them as being married. Is that really weird? They were just our parents." 

_Not 'my' parents,_ Mycroft noted without comment. _'Our' parents. Always shared._

Greg slid his fingers together, thinking in silence for a little longer. "My mum seemed to make sandwiches from dawn 'til midnight most days," he said. "It's all she did."

"And your father?"

"Oh. He, erm... he worked a lot. Six kids, so... I mean, he had to. Delivery driver. When he was home, he was usually on the couch asleep."

"It sounds as if it was rare for your parents to have time together," Mycroft said.

Greg inhaled. "Yeah," he said, releasing it with a shiver. "Yeah, that's... I mean, I never knew them to go out for a meal or a date. Most of the time, they seemed to communicate through us. 'Mum says can you come help peel carrots'. 'Dad says have you seen his shoe polishing kit'. I don't remember ever... y'know, walking in on them kissing. Anything like that."

He hesitated; his mouth pulled down at one corner.

"Suppose they must have done," he added, opening one eye, and peered up at Mycroft from the couch. "Six of us. We weren't grown in the garden."

Mycroft kept his face in neutral, though he suspected a little brightness had entered his gaze.

"Your parents were more private with their affections," he suggested, cleanly.

"I guess so." Greg shifted on the couch, thinking. Something furrowed his forehead. "Except... I don't mean to say they didn't love each other. Obviously they did. I just don't know if... _affections_ is the right..."

Mycroft tilted his head. "No?"

"Don't remember them ever hugging. Smiling at each other. Stuff like that. They managed to make six of us, and they worked themselves to the bone bringing us up, but... I don't know. They always seemed to speak to each other like workmates at the end of a fourteen-hour shift, even first thing in the morning."

Mycroft waited, listening gently. 

More appeared.

"I don't really understand how they ended up with so many of us," Greg admitted. "I don't know how either of them found the energy."

"For sex?"

"Nnh. Then... well, they didn't have any money for hobbies or holidays, so... suppose there's not many kinds of fun you can have for free."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, recrossing his legs without a sound. "Did they tell you much about sex?"

Greg winced. "My dad gave me _the talk._ I was... I don't know, thirteen-ish?"

"Do you remember it?"

"Bits of it. I remember it left me feeling ill."

"Ill?"

"Just... god, I remember him going on about 'it goes stiff and you put it in a girl' and it was the grossest thing I'd ever heard in my entire... J-Jesus, why am I cringing at this? I have _had_ sex. I promise. Maybe it was just hearing my dad say it."

"There are perhaps more eloquent ways of describing the act of congress," Mycroft conceded. "Unless, of course, you're a father of six who hopes your teenage son won't rush to follow in your footsteps... in which case an untempting description might be wise."

Greg winced again, trying to smile. The colour was still high in his cheeks. 

"Fair enough," he supposed. "Did you get the talk?"

Mycroft noted the nervous deflection of attention.

"Not at home," he said, supposing a few moments' escape from awkward recollections had been earned. He smiled. "I think my parents believed school should tend to that particular unpleasant necessity."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Did they?"

Mycroft hummed, attempting to phrase this discreetly. "I, ah... learned rather more from my peers than from my tutors," he said.

Greg's eyebrow lifted further. "Were you at boarding school by any chance?"

As Mycroft felt his face crumple with reluctant amusement, Greg put a hand to his mouth, hiding his laughter.

"Christ," he said. "Sorry. That's... that's stereotyping. Bad of me. I'm sure no funny business ever actually goes on at boarding school."

Mycroft rubbed the smile from his mouth, fighting to compose himself. _I never laugh so readily with other clients,_ flashed through the back of his mind. _I'm never this helpless to it._

"I do believe this is _your_ therapy session, Mr Lestrade," he said.

Greg's grin widened. "We'll swap over at half time, will we?" he said. "Then it's my turn to sit in the posh chair and ask the questions?"

"The couch is also posh, thank you," Mycroft said. "It certainly cost me enough."

"Do I get to borrow your glasses?" Greg asked, still grinning. "So I can peer at you over them, I mean. Shame I haven't got a beard to stroke."

_You utter devil._

"I spent many years at university being trained in the proper methods of beard-stroking and peering," Mycroft said, fixing Greg with a raised eyebrow, as the wicked man beamed up from the couch in delight. "With great power comes great responsibility. Behave yourself and you can have a brief stroke at the end."

Greg's eyes glittered.

"Alright," he said, biting the corner of his lip. _Lord, that's... quite a sight._ "Forgot to remind you about my gentle yet stern look. I meant to say when I arrived."

"We will get there," Mycroft said with a smirk. He shifted forwards in his chair, reaching out to brush Greg's eyes closed once more. "Never comfortable to sift through one's childhood," he added, gentling his tones with a note of reassurance. "I appreciate this might be difficult to discuss."

Huffing, Greg tipped his head back against the cushion. 

"Suppose it all went wrong somewhere," he said. "Best start at the beginning and work forwards."

Mycroft permitted himself a small smile. "Nothing has gone wrong," he murmured. "A little off-course at the present moment, perhaps." _For both of us._ "But not at all wrong. Showing me how your first impressions of sex were formed will help me understand some of the strands of your life. It might give me some idea of what you search for in your closest relationships."

Greg took this in, settling quietly beneath the words. 

"Not what my parents had," he said after a moment. A little guilt flattened his mouth. "They loved us. They did a good job. I just... I can't in any honesty say I want to live what they lived."

"What aspect of their lives would distress you most?" Mycroft asked. 

Greg didn't need to think long. "Loads of kids," he said. "Sorry if that's... I know most people really want to be a dad."

"Not necessarily."

"I love my nieces and nephews. I'd die for them. Any of them, I mean it. In a heartbeat. And I always thought... y'know, if I met somebody and they really wanted kids, or... or if an accident happened, then... so long as we had enough money. But if I stayed as Uncle Greg all my life, I wouldn't mind so much. I'd rather live easy without kids than struggle bringing them up on a shoestring. My mum used to go sit on the backstep and cry sometimes. Just sit there and cry. I couldn't bear it, knowing we did that to her."

"Hardly something you _did,_ Greg. The decision to have a large family wasn't made by the children."

"Mnh. Not completely sure it was her decision, either."

 _Mm._ "Do you perhaps fear that becoming a parent would strain your relationship with your partner?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'd hate that. I wouldn't want someone to stop seeing me as... y'know, the man they love. The person they chose to be with. I wouldn't want to become just some useless lump who never helps."

As he listened, Mycroft realised that a shape seemed to be appearing through the fog—a border edge which marked territory unexplored. In striving not to become his father, it would have made sense for Greg Lestrade to inadvertently become his mother: created a home, filled it with with children, honoured her suffering by repeating it and tried his best to retell her painful story with a happier ending. Several of his siblings seemed to have opted for such a path.

But something had prevented that in Greg. He'd fled away from both his parents towards another shelter entirely.

"Did you know any couples without children growing up?" Mycroft asked, absently readjusting his trouser leg.

Greg's immediate smile felt like a lock turning in a key. 

"Ha," he mumbled. "Yeah. My aunt and uncle. Dad's sister."

Mycroft's heart squeezed at the look of immediate fondness. "Tell me about them."

Greg seemed to take a moment just to enjoy the memories, smiling a little in the quiet.

"Uncle Alan worked for the council," he said. "Auntie Mel had a little sewing business. Curtains and stuff. Repairs for people. I used to deliver things for her when she'd finished them. Collect the money and fetch it back. I was eight, maybe, when I started. Did it for years."

Mycroft listened in silence, watching Greg rub the sleeve of his jumper.

"I'd call round after school once a week," Greg went on. "They'd give me my tea, then I'd take all the packages off on my bike. I must've gone a thousand miles on that bike." He paused, pulling gently at the wool. "Red. Black handle bars."

"Were you close to your aunt and uncle?" Mycroft asked.

"Mhm." Greg shifted, exhaling. "Brothers and sisters got a bit jealous, but... well, none of them were willing to help me deliver the stuff. I don't think my aunt and uncle had much time for kids."

"But you were the exception?" Mycroft said.

Greg smiled sadly, his eyes still closed. "My uncle used to say I was an old head on young shoulders. Always liked that."

"I imagine their marriage seemed very different to your parents."

"Christ. Couldn't have been more different."

"What was it like?"

"Their house was just... calm. Calm and quiet. Fresh flowers in the kitchen." Greg hesitated, rubbing the back of his hand. "I remember they used to touch all the time," he said. "Whenever Uncle Alan passed her, he'd reach out and squeeze her shoulder, and she'd turn and smile up at him. He always thanked her whenever she brought him something. Called her love. Petal. And I wanted that so much. Whatever that was."

"Someone to take care of you?" Mycroft said, gently.

Greg's silence ached.

"Or someone to care for?" Mycroft suggested.

Greg's expression creased. It took a minute for him to speak again, gripping his own wrist until the worst had passed.

"Both," he said at last, his voice thick. "I don't know. Just... th-they were always happy. Nobody was ever yelling or upset. Nothing got broken. If it did, they didn't mind. I used to help Auntie Mel roll out biscuits in the kitchen, waiting for him to get back from work. She knew the sound of his car turning into the drive. Her face used to light up. She just wanted to see him."

Greg inhaled, pushing his tongue into his cheek. 

"Kinda used to daydream they were my real parents," he admitted. "As if they'd somehow swapped... I-I don't know. I don't even know how that would ever have happened. I just liked the idea."

"Was it comforting, thinking you could be like them?"

"Yeah. Really comforting."

"You hoped to find something like their marriage for yourself."

"Yeah. Yeah, I... I always thought it would be nice. Being like that with someone."

"What did you hope it would bring you?" Mycroft asked.

Greg took a long time to think, nervously rubbing his wrist again. 

"Nice house, two careers. Quiet. Happy quiet." His throat muscles gripped as he swallowed. "I got called the wrong name nine times out of ten. I think... honestly I think even by the time I came along, my parents were just... Christ, just _tired._ I don't blame them. I honestly, genuinely don't blame them. They did the best they could."

"But?" Mycroft prompted.

Greg let it out with a breath. 

"I just wanted someone to get my name right," he said. "First time. Not have to cycle through three or four others first. I wanted someone to sit and talk with me and smile at me. My mum didn't have time for me to prattle on at her about whatever book I was reading at school while she was... J-Jesus, always making sandwiches. Holding a toddler on her hip. My dad was just the oldest of her kids in the end. So long as we were all fed and not covered in mud or bleeding, she had better things to do than listen to me. I don't blame her. I mean it. I really, honestly don't blame her."

The silence strained, then slowly settled. Bunching his fingers in his sleeve, Greg gave another thick swallow.

"We're not talking about sex," he said.

"We're talking about its fruit," Mycroft murmured. "Intimacy. I believe it's something you crave very deeply."

"R-right."

"Growing up, your parents' marriage seems to have been sustained first and foremost by duty, rather than obvious closeness. It's very normal—and very natural—that having seen the struggles involved in such a relationship, you want something a little different for yourself."

"Right," Greg mumbled again, letting go of his sleeve. The wool expanded quietly back into shape. "I can see that. It... it's just that I feel more comfortable that way. It's just what I want out of life. Right?"

Mycroft smiled. "Open your eyes."

They opened slowly, uncertainly, into his own—blinked a little, clearing, then brightened as they saw his smile.

"Congratulations," Mycroft murmured. The smile became a nervous grin. "You have survived the first of our expeditions together into your past. We've even come back with a prize."

"A prize?" Greg said, searching his face. 

"Mm," Mycroft said. "A little piece of your inner jigsaw. I think I'll now make us a hot drink and we can discuss what we've found. Does that sound alright?"

Greg's eyes sparkled. "Then can I try on your glasses?" he teased.

 _Does anyone ever meet you and not adore you?_ Mycroft offered out a hand, helping Greg to sit up. 

"You can," he said. "If you're especially good, we'll go next door to Ananya's office and get you a sticker."


	13. All in the Past

Mycroft handed Greg his mug of tea by the rim, letting him take hold of the handle.

"George Bernard Shaw," he said, "described marriage as an alliance, entered into by one man who can't sleep with the window shut and one woman who can't sleep with it open."

Greg huffed, smiling at once. It didn't entirely reach his eyes.

"George Bernard Shaw knew his onions," he said, and he took a sip of boiling tea. He winced a little at its heat. "Was he married?"

"For forty-five years, in fact." Mycroft took a seat beside Greg on the couch, placing his tea just in reach on the coffee table. "He and his wife married in their forties," he said. "It's widely believed that it was never consummated, though they might have shared one careful exploratory experience together. Before their marriage Bernard Shaw wrote a letter to her, saying,  _ don't fall in love: be your own, not mine or anyone else's. From the moment that you cannot do without me, you are lost." _

Greg swallowed a mouthful of tea rather hard. He moved his mug to sit beside Mycroft's, brushing something off the lap of his jeans.

"Changed his tune," he remarked.

Mycroft smiled a little. "Charlotte predeceased her husband by a handful of years. Her ashes were kept, then mixed with his and scattered in the garden that he'd tended during the quiet years without her."

"Right," Greg said. He tried a smile in return, brave. "Guess we can conclude they slept with the windows shut."

"Is that what you'd personally recommend?"

"Mm?"

"On the topic of marriage. Appeasement."

Greg shivered, his smile fading at the edges. 

"I'm the last person who should be making recommendations about marriage," he said. "The last person in the world." He turned his eyes a little awkwardly across the room, trying to recover some of his cheer away from the weight of Mycroft's gaze. "The longer I'm married, the less and less I know about marriage."

"What advice would you give a younger man?" Mycroft asked. "A younger version of yourself, perhaps."

"Advice on... what, just marriage in general?"

"Mm."

"Christ." Greg's mouth tightened, holding something in. It escaped him with a nervous laugh. "Don't do it? No, that's... I don't mean that. That's not fair on Hel. And it's not that bad. I like being married. Things are good sometimes. It's just..." 

He paused, forming it carefully into words. 

"You should do it for the right reasons, maybe." He glanced up at Mycroft, almost shy. A little brightness returned to his eyes. "You're now gonna ask me what the right reasons are."

Mycroft said nothing, allowing the corner of his mouth to upturn in a smile. 

Greg thought about it for a minute or two, quietly rubbing his palms together.

"I don't know," he said at last. "Don't do it for the wrong reasons, then."

"What are the wrong reasons?"

"Yikes. Let's not go there." Greg drew a shaky breath, trying a nervous grin. "Or is that a red flag to a therapist?  _ 'Let's not go there'?" _

Mycroft pulled his lower lip. "I'll admit that I'd like to unpack your reluctance," he said. "But if you're not quite ready, we can take it as read and carry on with the discussion."

"Take what as read?" Greg asked, uneasy in an instant.

Mycroft delivered the lethal blow as gently as he possibly could. "That you fear you got married for the wrong reasons."

He watched the light in Greg's eyes fade. There came a silence between them, a long one, in which Greg seemed incapable of looking away.

"I did it for the right reasons," he said at last, quietly. He swallowed, glancing down at Mycroft's chest. "I did the right thing. Still doing it. Trying to. I did what I did, for better or for worse, and now I'm making the best job I can of it."

_ 'I did the right thing',  _ Mycroft thought. It seemed an odd response. 

Before he could question it, Greg spoke again.

"If there's good reasons, I don't know them. If there are bad reasons, I don't know them either. I'm not going to judge people. Honestly I don't have a thing to say about marriage. I could probably teach someone to fly a plane or perform brain surgery more successfully. At least I've never proven I'm crap at those."

Mycroft tilted his head. "What makes you believe you're 'crap' at marriage?"

Greg gave him a pained look, struggling for a moment to put it into words."I'm in therapy," he said, as a starter.

Mycroft hummed. "Some might say that makes you very suited to marriage. It suggests a certain dedication, for one thing... a willingness to acknowledge problems and then take steps to solve them. An awareness of the need for emotional labour. It's not at all a failing."

Greg took this in uncertainly, looking down into his lap. It didn't seem to penetrate the surface of his heart. "Helen's unhappy, then. That's a fair sign I'm doing something wrong."

"Not necessarily, Greg. If two people build a boat and it sinks, we can't conclude they  _ both _ left a hole."

"Well... alright, that's fair but... if I was a decent husband, we wouldn't be having these problems, would we? She'd just... I-I don't know. Want to be with me. Be happy when she's with me."

"Are you happy when you're with her?" Mycroft asked.

"Does that matter?"

_ Heaven help me.  _ "Very much so. Would you say it's the case?"

Greg responded in instinct, too quickly to allow any other answer to enter his head. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, of course I am."

_ "All _ the time?" Mycroft prompted.

Greg's cheek pulled; no response came forth.

"It isn't disloyal to be less than happy," Mycroft said, holding his gaze. "I know it might seem you have a duty to uphold things... to supply additional happiness in order to meet a shortage. But in this office, you're under no such obligation. If it would be helpful for you to lay that burden down for a short while, you are safe to do so. No harm will come from recognising your own feelings."

Greg watched him for some time along the sofa, wary and more than a little pale. A thousand thoughts seemed to go through his mind, each one more uncomfortable than the last.

Finally, drawing a breath, he said,

"No, I'm not happy. I'm... f-fucking exhausted, frankly."

_ At last.  _ "What is it you find exhausting?" Mycroft asked. 

Greg braced himself. "Life," he said. His gazed ached. "Trying to go one bloody day without some new issue. Some new argument." He wrestled with something inside his mouth for a moment, pulling his eyes away to find the strength to say it. "Didn't even manage twenty minutes this morning," he said, shaking. "I took her a coffee. She's decided I'm trying to poison her."

_ What in...  _

Mycroft kept the thought away from his face, adopting a quietly puzzled frown to cover his immediate concern. 

"Poison her?" he said.

Nervously Greg rolled his eyes, looking down at his hands. His fingers were shaking as he pushed them together.

"I'm not," he said. "I'm not, she's just... her sister watches all these true crime documentaries about serial killers and psychopaths, then she puts daft ideas into Helen's head. Helen decided her coffee tasted a bit weird. Turns out the milk goes off tomorrow, so obviously I'm now trying to make her ill."

_ Sweet Jesus.  _

"I'm sorry to hear Helen thinks that," Mycroft said, wishing his heart hadn't sped up so dramatically. He proceeded with enormous care. "Do you have any instincts as to why she might have come to that conclusion?"

Greg struggled with the answer for a moment, rubbing his shaking thumb in the centre of his palm.

"It... I don't know," he said. "This doesn't make sense. I know it doesn't. But sometimes I feel like she wishes I hated her."

"Why might she want that?" Mycroft asked, quietly. 

"I don't know," Greg said again, swallowing. He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "So she can tell people? I know that's a really weird thing to accuse her of. But sometimes I feel like she'd just find it interesting. She could go tell all her friends that I'm dangerous. They're all dating these men who should probably be locked up, and they're always round at our house crying over Helen with the latest installment of what Darren's done now and... and I don't know. Helen's saddled with a boring idiot. The only time I ever—"

He stopped himself, rubbing nervously across his mouth. When he spoke again, it came with a rush of breath.

"Helen just likes having something to talk about," he said, numbly. "That's all. And I'm not much to talk about."

Mycroft spoke with care, watching every flicker of Greg's expression. "The only time you ever...?"

Greg pushed both hands across his face, inhaling hard. "J-Jesus," he said. "Okay, I... I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this earlier. I should've done. And I know you'll ask  _ why _ I didn't tell you and it's because I know what you'll think. But it's..."

Mycroft said nothing, waiting, his pulse thundering quietly against his ribs.

Greg told his palms instead of Mycroft.

"She cheated on me," he mumbled. "Once. It was just the once and we worked it out. It was before we got married. But I... I-I didn't really take it well."

He ran his hands up into his hair, scrunched it as he inhaled, then quietly sat up.

"I got angry," he said in a voice of forceful calm, reaching for his tea. He downed half the mug in one. "I saw red and I shouldn't have. There was a bit of a scrap between me and the other guy. I'm sorry I didn't tell you but I knew you'd think I'm some sort of thug and I'm not. I swear. It just wrecked me and I couldn't bear it. All her friends thought it was amazing. It was the worst fucking day of my life."

_ Oh, god. _

"Greg..." Mycroft moved along the couch before he could bring himself to stop. His hand laid itself on Greg's arm, fingers wrapping gently into place. "I wouldn't have thought that of you for a moment. Not for an instant."

Greg said nothing, shaking as he looked down at Mycroft's hand.

"I'm very sorry that transpired," Mycroft said. "I'm even more sorry if it was treated as some kind of entertainment."

Greg's throat muscles visibly gripped. "M'sorry I didn't tell you."

"This is only our second full session," Mycroft said, as softly as he could. "You're under no obligation to divulge every incident of your life as quickly as you possibly can, Greg. I'm glad you've told me. I'd like to take some time to talk about this, if that's alright—either now or during a future session—but you needn't apologise. And I certainly do  _ not _ believe you are a thug."

Shaking, Greg reached out a nervous hand. He placed it on top of Mycroft's on his forearm and gripped, keeping Mycroft's touch there for a few moments longer.

"She's changed," he said. Mycroft's heart clenched to a fraction of its size. "We worked through it. Me and Helen. All that's in the past."

_ God help me. _

"I'm glad to hear it," Mycroft managed, aching.

"And she knows it's... it'd be over, I mean. It'd be quits. She won't do that to me. Not again."

_ Oh, god. Oh my god. _

"We broke up for a while over it," Greg went on, exhaling shakily. "It was... complicated in the end, but... well, she knows that'd be it."

Mycroft nodded, letting the quiet linger. Greg began to rub Mycroft's knuckles with his thumb in silence, a nervous and wordless acknowledgement of the support.

At last Mycroft murmured, "Please forgive your therapist a painful question. I want to understand as fully as I can, so I can help you."

"C-Christ." Greg closed his eyes. "Go on."

"Affairs are often enabled by circumstances," Mycroft said carefully, his heart slamming against the front of his throat. "Relationships which recover from affairs have usually included a very purposeful change in circumstances... something has been altered which lessens the possibility of future infidelity. A move to a new place, perhaps. A change of job. Did anything like that occur?"

The corner of Greg's mouth pulled; his gaze sought the carpet for answers, finding nothing.

"Did Helen give you some reason to believe that the behaviour won't be repeated?" Mycroft asked, gently. "Other than her assurances."

_ Tell me,  _ he begged in silence.  _ Tell me no. Tell me it's possible. Tell me you've been wondering for weeks. _

Greg simply inhaled, passing his tongue briefly between his lips. 

"She knows I'd leave," he murmured. "I left last time. Nearly. It's... it was complicated, but there was more to it. It won't happen again."

Mycroft's heart squeezed. 

"I'm surprisingly good with complicated," he said. 

Greg huffed out a humourless smile, dropping his head. His grip tightened silently on Mycroft's hand. He seemed to take a moment just to prepare himself, his tongue appearing in the hollow of his cheek.

Then he said,

"She lost it. In the end."

_ She—  _

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, no. _

"We didn't know if it was... the dates were hard to—" Greg gestured, vaguely. "Maybe. It was enough for me. Seemed like... seemed like a chance to prove I was the bigger guy.  _ I _ was the good one. The right one after all. I wasn't just—" 

He cringed, pushing his fingertips against the corners of his eyes. 

"—y-y'know, just some loser got screwed over. I was the proper man. I'd step up. She cried so hard when I told her I'd be there. I'd never seen her cry. Not once. And we talked, and we made all the plans. Got her a ring. Even thought about names, then..."

He shrugged.

"H-Happens," he said. "I feel really fucking guilty sometimes. I was kinda relieved. We wouldn't have been any good at it. I  _ know _ we wouldn't. By that point, we'd got all the wedding plans in place, invites sent out, and I... I don't know. I'm not the sort of arsehole who'd cancel the whole thing and fuck off, now there wasn't going to be..."

He looked up at Mycroft in the deafening silence, his eyes red and dull beneath their shine.

"I did the right thing," he whispered. His throat muscles gripped. "Now I need you to teach me how to make it work. Please."

Mycroft said nothing, incapable.

"She won't cheat again," Greg said, shaking. "She knows I only gave things another go because of... I wouldn't have forgiven her otherwise. If I did the wrong thing, then I did it for the  _ right _ reasons and that makes it the right thing. I can't quit now. I  _ can't _ be this unhappy. Please."

*

Ananya took almost ten minutes to answer the door. Mycroft kept up his assault on the buzzer until she finally appeared with her hair wrapped up in a bath towel, her scowl rendered no less severe by her fluffy lilac dressing robe.

"Was that you ringing the phone?" she demanded. "What on earth are you doing here? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

The sight of him was already derailing her anger. He could see it in her eyes, the dawning realisation that he'd not come here without good reason.

"What is it?" she said, her tone softening. She gathered her bath robe more tightly. "Is everything alright?"

Mycroft found himself momentarily incapable of speech. He'd driven here with a skull full of thoughts like swarming insects, too loud and too angry even to beginning separating one from the rest. Now he somehow had to turn them into words.

Looking into her eyes, he forced his throat into a shape that would permit sound. It hurt.

"She told you," he said. "She... you asked me. If I'd found out why."

Ananya said not a word, watching him with the greatest of concern. Mycroft tried again.

"You asked me," he said, shaking, "if I'd found out why Greg Lestrade forgave his wife after her last affair. After what he believes was her  _ only  _ affair. You asked me because you already knew why, and you wanted to ascertain whether I did."

"We can't talk about this," Ananya murmured, "because she is not your patient."

"Ananya—"

"Because if we do talk," she said, "and you hear something from me, and that information is somehow passed onto another patient? You and I will both lose our licences. Done. Finished. That is what will happen."

Mycroft's stomach lurched. "Was it real?"

Ananya's eyes flashed. "We are not talking about this."

"Ananya, for the love of god,  _ was it real?  _ Or did she invent the entire bloody thing? Should I be encouraging my client to stay in a marriage with a fundamentally vicious liar or should I be going to extraordinary lengths to get him out of there immediately?"

"Mycroft—" 

"She lied, didn't she?"

_ "Mycroft—" _

"For god's sake. Of course she lied. Of course she did. A miraculous pregnancy that just might possibly be his? A man whose parents worked themselves to the bone out of duty? And he fell for it without a second thought." 

Revulsion roiled up in Mycroft's throat. He spat the words out, shaking. 

"The woman is the most textbook example of narcissism currently walking around this world. She hasn't so much as a shred of remorse for the pain and distress that she sows. The emotions of those around her are toys. Nothing more. If she's damaged, Ananya, then that doesn't negate the fact that she is  _ dangerous. _ I'll stake a thousand pounds that she freely admitted to you there was never any pregnancy, knowing you'd be helpless but to guard that secret for her. To support her all the same.  _ That's _ what unsettled you. Her pleasure in her own cruelty. Her pleasure in forcing others to witness it."

Ananya drew a breath, her hand still wrapped around the door. 

"Let's say so," she said. "Let's say you're right. What are you going to do about it?"

_ I do not have the slightest idea.  _

Mycroft crushed the thought aside; it wasn't an option. He was the therapist. He was the last resort. He was the person Greg Lestrade had turned to when every other possible solution had failed, and he could not now simply join the string of failure.

Trying to ignore the shake in his hands, Mycroft closed his eyes and spoke.

"Free him from the marriage," he said. "With urgency. Look for signs of other emotional manipulation or abuse. God help me, I could barely concentrate after he'd told me. I couldn't bear it. I had to know. Ananya, I have the greatest concern for his welfare."

Ananya moved her tongue around her cheek, a neat lump beneath the surface of her skin. 

"Why?" she asked.

"Because the woman cheerfully  _ faked a pregnancy _ to force him to forgive her infidelity!" Mycroft said, outraged. "She sees him as her property to abuse and mistreat as she wishes! God only knows what else she's capab—"

"But why are you  _ here,  _ Mycroft?" Ananya cut across him, fiercely. The force of her voice shocked Mycroft into silence. "Why is this woman so frightening to you? How many female clients have you treated who have partners who are borderline or even openly abusive, and you've still slept well each night? And yet now you're standing on my doorstep. Why?"

_ Because I need your help. _

_ Because he is obviously in danger, she will hurt him—he— _

_ And I can't bear it if he's—if he's hurt—  _

_ Oh, god— _

In the ringing silence left by his brain, Mycroft's mouth took over the controls. 

"Because I had to know," it said. Mycroft swallowed, breathing in. "I... I couldn't be certain of the severity of the situation. I needed to understand it more fully before I speak to him again, so I know how best to proceed."

Ananya wasn't buying it. He could see it in her eyes, gently narrowed, her mouth flat with no suggestion of a smile.

"Treat him like you've treated a thousand others," she murmured. "Listen to him. Talk to him. If he indicates there is abuse, then educate him. Help him to recognise it and escape it."

She held open the door.

"Now please come in and drink some wine," she said. "Let's talk about you."

Mycroft's heart tightened. 

_ The last thing we should discuss is me,  _ he thought.  _ The last thing in this world. _

He inhaled as steadily as he could, shaking, and looked Ananya in the eye.

"You're very kind," he said. "You're very good to me. And I'm sorry that I disturbed you. I believe the best thing I could do now is sleep, pull my thoughts into some sort of sense, and see you early next week."

Ananya read his face gently. She looked as if she didn't think it entirely wise to let him go.

"I'm not sure I want the tidied version of your thoughts," she said. "I don't know how useful they'll be to me five days from now, once you've cleaned them and shaped them and trimmed away the parts you don't like. I'd much rather see them as they are."

Mycroft's throat gripped tight. 

"I'd very much like to give them to you," he said. "I'm afraid I don't know them myself yet. It means I rather can't."

Ananya held the door a little wider. 

"Perhaps a therapist could help," she said.

Mycroft realised in a rush that if he didn't leave now, he wouldn't leave. He would still be sitting on Ananya's living room couch at midnight, trying to convince her that it wasn't what she thought—trying harder still to convince himself. She'd be asking all the right questions about his protective feelings towards Greg Lestrade. They'd be circling a single conclusion like muddy water swirling around a drain. Ananya was good at her job. She'd make him face it. 

_ I cannot face it. _

Mycroft's heart strained.

_ If I face it, I cannot help him. I'd have to refer him. Abandon him. Just as he's... _

"I think I need to sleep first," Mycroft said. He watched Ananya's expression quieten, accepting that she couldn't force him. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry to have disturbed you. I should have waited until the morning, Ananya. Good night."

As he turned away, numb to the bone, Ananya spoke behind him.

"My door will be open when you're ready, Mycroft."

_ The less you know, old friend, the better. _

"Thank you," Mycroft said, hoping to god that it sounded more composed in her ears than in his. "Goodnight."

*

The text arrived when he was halfway home in the taxi. Mycroft tore his gaze at once from the thin grey rain now pattering at the window, reaching without a sound into his coat.

_ [GL - 21:12] Hey... sorry. Feel like today got weird :( Feel like I shocked you. I'm sorry to be even weirder now and text you but I can't really stop thinking about it _

Mycroft's heart heaved, distraught in an instant.  _ I'm your therapist,  _ he thought, shaking as he reread the message.  _ I'm supposed to make you feel safe. Incapable of shocking me. I'm meant to be your shelter. _

Before he could reply, the rest arrived.

_ [GL - 21:12] I'm sorry I just dumped all that. I was probably meant to pace myself? Therapy newbie. I'm just sorry if it was a lot to suddenly hand you _

_ [GL - 21:12] I should have mentioned some of it sooner maybe? I don't know _

_ [GL - 21:12] Yikes :( Regretting this too now. Please disregard. Just a bit raw and I didn't mean to make things weird if I did _

_ [GL - 21:13] Thanks for the session, I appreciate it. I'll see you next week _

Mycroft typed as quickly as he could, almost nauseous with distress.

_ [MH - 21:13] Is it safe for me to call you? - M _

_ [GL - 21:13] No please don't _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:13] Sorry :( _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:13] The walls are thin _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:13] She's in bed now too and she'll hear _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:13] Please don't call _

_ [MH - 21:14] That's alright. I won't. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:14] We can talk by text message, is that okay? - M _

_ [GL - 21:16] Its alright, I'm just fussing :( I'm sorry to disturb you x _

_ [MH - 21:16] There's no need to apologise. Everything is perfectly alright. Please don't regret confiding in me as I'm very glad you did. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:16] I'm only sorry our session ended before we'd had time to discuss it fully. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:17] It's understandable if it's left you feeling uneasy or vulnerable. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:17] Would it help to see me sooner than next week? - M _

_ [GL - 21:19] I'm sorry, I know you're busy :( _

_ [MH - 21:19] I have a slot tomorrow evening. You'd be very welcome to it. - M _

No response came for several minutes. Wetting his dry lips, Mycroft drew a breath and pursued.

_ [MH - 21:23] I'd like to see you Greg. I'd like to reassure you and talk more about what you told me. - M _

_ [GL - 21:23] If you're sure it wouldn't be a nightmare _

_ [MH - 21:23] Not in any way. I'd find it reassuring too. - M _

_ [GL - 21:24] What time? :( _

_ [MH - 21:24] I'm available from 7pm. I can stay as late as you need me. - M _

_ [GL - 21:25] Oh god are you certain? I don't want to be that client :( _

_ [MH - 21:26] You'd have to work a great deal harder if you did. I assure you. It's no trouble at all. x - M _

_ [GL - 21:27] Alright... if you're sure. Thank you for seeing me _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:27] I'm sorry to be a fuss. I mean it x  _

_ [MH - 21:27] You are not a 'fuss'. I also mean it. x - M _

_ [GL - 21:29] How do you ever get anything done when I'm always texting you? :( _

Mycroft's flat was dark and empty as he stepped in through the door. He dropped his keys into their usual wooden bowl, moved in silence to the lounge and sat in the first chair that he found, swiping numbly through screens on his phone. His coat was damp with rain; the lights stayed out around him.

_ [MH - 21:35] If you check your e-reader you should find a new book. Soft heat, established couple and very gentle. Male relationship. Let me know if you'd prefer otherwise. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:36] It's one of my reliables for insomnia. It should help settle you to sleep. - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 21:36] We'll ease the rest of your concerns together tomorrow. In the mean time please treat yourself gently, try not to worry, and if you must then at least not about me. x - M _

_ [GL - 21:37] Thank you xx _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:37] Thank you for the book _

_ [MH - 21:38] My pleasure. Are you alright? x - M _

_ [GL - 21:39] Yes I'm alright x _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:39] I promise. Go off to sleep, I'm keeping you up x _

_ [MH - 21:39] Comfortable and safe? x - M _

_ [GL - 21:40] Comfortable and safe _ _   
_ _ [GL - 21:40] Promise xx _

_ [MH - 21:40] Good. I'll see you tomorrow evening then. Sleep well. Everything will be perfectly fine. x - M _

_ [GL - 21:47] Good night mycroft xx _

_ [MH - 21:52] Goodnight, Greg. x _


	14. Shelter

**Thursday 28th November**

Greg spent the longest fitting minutes of his life sitting alone the next night in Mycroft's waiting room. He tried his best not to fiddle with his jumper nor tap his fingers on his knee. All the magazines needed calm and concentration in order to read them, neither of which he had right now. 

The entire day, he'd felt like he was watching his life through thick glass, unable to shake the instinct he should be somewhere else. Arriving here had calmed that feeling for a minute. Now he'd moved onto panicking in nervous silence about what to say—how to try putting things back to normal. Things  _ had _ ended weirdly last night. He  _ had  _ shocked Mycroft, no matter the reassurances that had come afterwards—alarmed him, maybe. Concerned him. Greg knew what a comfortable and happy Mycroft looked like, sounded like. He hadn't been either of those things last night.

_ Good of him to fit me in,  _ Greg thought numbly, looking down into his lap. He'd started pulling at his sleeve again. Taking hold of his own wrist to stop himself, he turned his gaze across the empty room with a breath.  _ Get things sorted. _

He didn't really know what it would be best to say.

_ "I made it sound like a big issue and it wasn't. I wanted to marry her anyway." _

_ "It sped things up, maybe. But we did it and I'm glad. I want to focus on our problems now, not then." _

_ "Doesn't matter if I regret it. If I listened to all my regrets, I'd have to walk into traffic. Regret doesn't fix things." _

A couple of minutes before seven, there came a clunk from the corridor past reception. Greg looked up at once, breathing in as he braced himself to see Mycroft.

A woman appeared—a professional-looking woman in a suit with a pale grey coat folded under her arm. She kept her eyes entirely to herself as she left, her high heels echoing away down the stairs. Greg hated the squirm of guilty curiosity she arose in the back of his stomach.  _ Why are you here?  _ he thought.  _ What does he help you with? _ She'd looked so normal and calm and put together.

Greg wondered if Mycroft sent her gifts of erotica, too. If he knew her favourites. Single dads and school teachers. Professors murmuring,  _ I am proud of you. _ Married gay couples who always said  _ I love you _ in the afterglow.

_ J-Jesus, I need to stop reading the gay ones. I should at least give the straight ones a try... _

A few more painful minutes passed. The distant door clicked open again; familiar footsteps came this way.

If angels had still been around anymore, they would dress like Mycroft Holmes. Greg's chest seemed to crumple at the sight of him, as fragile as cheap aluminium. Mycroft wore grey-blues today; a cashmere jumper, grey slacks, neat and tidy with a textured silver tie. He looked like he was here to meet a new boyfriend's parents and hoping very much to impress them. He looked like he'd feel warm and soft to hold.

Greg swallowed, hurriedly pulling together a smile.  _ Shit. Shit. I can't feel this way about you. Shit. _

"H-Hey," he said, much braver than he felt.  _ Oh, Christ. You're incredible. Fuck. _

"Hello," Mycroft murmured in response. The quiet seemed to settle close; the space around them felt far too big and empty. "Thank you for coming. I'm very glad you could make it."

"S'alright," Greg managed, weak. "I, erm... thanks for finding me the time. I appreciate it."

As Mycroft crossed the waiting room to him, Greg's pulse sped out of rhythm. He got up from the sofa to meet Mycroft, shaking slightly, unsure what was about to happen, half-thinking they would shake hands or hug.

As they reached each other, Mycroft smiled a little. He placed a careful hand upon Greg's arm.

"How are you?" he asked. Greg's heart thumped, overcome by the gentleness of the touch and the calm of Mycroft's deep grey eyes, resting nowhere in the world but on his face. "Did you sleep at least?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I... I managed in the end." Greg hesitated, nervously wetting his dry lips. It seemed unsettling to do this out here in the waiting area. It felt like they could be discovered at any moment, as if someone could walk in and witness something they shouldn't. "I'm alright. I'm fine, I just... it'll be good to clear things up."

Mycroft took this onboard, his gaze still perfectly gentle.

"I'm not seeing anybody else," he said. Greg's heart kicked. "There's only you for the rest of the evening. It means we can take as long as you need." He brushed his hand around onto Greg's back, patting him. "Come through," he murmured. "Let's see if we can smooth a few tangles."

*

Mycroft settled Greg down on the sofa, took his jacket for him, then pulled across a chair so he could sit with Greg face-to-face.

Leaning forwards, he put a hand either side of Greg's elbows.

"To begin with," he said. Greg listened without breathing, following his every word. "You were very honest with me yesterday, even though it was uncomfortable for you and took a great deal of courage. The first thing I need to do is be absolutely honest with you in return."

Greg waited in silence, concerned, studying the planes of Mycroft's face.

Mycroft drew a breath.

"I  _ was  _ surprised," he said. Greg's stomach pulled tight. "I was concerned for you. It reflects very poorly on me that I couldn't put my surprise aside and concentrate instead on settling you. In a way, I'm glad we can continue the discussion now rather than in six days' time. But I'm very sorry you were left feeling raw and ungrounded. I promise never to repeat that experience for you."

_ God.  _

"It's... it's fine," Greg said. "I shouldn't have brought it all up that close to the end. I shouldn't have just dumped it on you out of nowhere. And it... l-listen, some of it came out wrong. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I really don't want that."

Mycroft listened gently, saying nothing for now.

Greg's heart hadn't beat this hard since the moment he found out he wouldn't have to be a dad.

"I don't want you to think I... I don't  _ love _ Helen," he said, his breath catching on the words. He swallowed to clear his throat. "I don't want you to think I just sleepwalked into a marriage I didn't really want. I'm not an idiot. I could've... y'know, if I'd really seriously not wanted to... and I don't want you to read into it. The current problems, I mean. I really,  _ really  _ want a happy marriage. I want all this to go away, so I can just go back. That's what I want."

"To when?" Mycroft asked, quietly.

Greg hesitated. "What... what do you—"

"Go back to when?" Mycroft read his face, gently rubbing Greg's elbow with a thumb. Greg's pulse seemed to slow in time with each slow circle. "If I could wave my hand in this instant and take you to some other point in your life, where would you go?"

Greg didn't know if he should answer that. He didn't know what good it would do, hearing himself say it.

Inhaling, he said at last,

"A year from now. When things are alright, and all this is a memory."

Mycroft moved something around the back of his mouth. "Why have you stopped sharing a bedroom with Helen?"

Greg's shoulder muscles stiffened. "How do you know that?"

"Last night there were walls in between you," Mycroft said. "Walls that you worried she might hear through. I also doubt you'd be able to lie awake beside her, texting into the night, without receiving a number of very pointed questions."

Greg said nothing for a second or so, his heart straining. "You told me to give her space."

"I did," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "I now realise I gave you permission to give her space. How have you felt going to bed alone?"

It seemed like a trap. Greg struggled with the answer for almost a minute, torn between one lie and the next.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, he finally said,

"Fine." Truth clawed its way up his throat. It hauled itself out of his mouth before he could stop it. "R-Relieved. Not to argue. Not to get accused of pawing at her. Leering at her. Not to get told I'm a fucking pervert if I kiss her head goodnight. Relieved to just... s-some time on my own, just to... Christ. I know what you're suggesting, alright?"

Mycroft's expression didn't move. "What am I suggesting?"

"You're suggesting I'm... fuck. Fine, I  _ don't _ know. I don't know what. I don't know anything anymore. I'm just tired of her taking bites out of me for... f-for every tiny—"

"—effort you make to hold your marriage together?"

"Yes—"

"Efforts which cost you far more than Helen realises?"

Greg's heart twisted. He felt his expression contort with it. His breath broke. 

He dropped his head and scraped his hands over the back of his neck, shaking. 

"Fuck," he gasped. Mycroft's hands appeared between his shoulders at once, rubbing hard.  _ "Fuck. _ I'm  _ trying. _ Every second, every day, I'm trying. She was the one who wanted to get back together, get married, make it all into one h-happy fucking—and then it just—and  _ now— _ now I'm just... oh Jesus, I'm  _ so fucking tired." _

"Greg..." Mycroft settled on his knees beside Greg's feet, reaching up to put an arm around him. He rubbed Greg's back as Greg curled into him, gasping out each breath. "There. There, now... it's alright. Tell me, Greg. Talk to me."

_ Want to hold you. Want to hug you.  _ "I-I can't—I can't, I can't—I can't be like this—"

"You can, here with me. You're safe to say things that frighten you."

"No, I... I don't really mean them—"

Fingers wrapped over the back of Greg's hand, loosening his shaking grip from his own hair.

"It's still alright to say them," Mycroft murmured, sliding his fingers through the strands instead, rubbing slow and easy circles against Greg's scalp. Greg bit down into the noise that almost escaped him. He couldn't breathe. "Tell me more things you don't mean," Mycroft said in his ear. "Hand the thoughts to me and they'll be gone from you. They won't haunt you any more."

Heat blistered across the back of Greg's eyes. He butted his head against Mycroft's shoulder, mute and trembling.

Mycroft began to rock him, slowly and carefully from side to side.

"It's quite alright to feel unhappy," Mycroft said, as softly as if it were a secret. Greg convulsed in his arms. He wanted to howl. "It won't bring the world down around you in flames. I promise. It isn't your duty to be unconditionally happy."

"S-Shit." Greg swallowed, shaking. "One of us needs to be."

"Why?"

"Or—"  _ It'll fall apart. All of it. If I don't prop it up, then she won't.  _ "God, m'sorry. I'm crying all over you. I'm so sorry."

"You can't imagine how many boxes of tissues this clinic gets through in one week," Mycroft murmured. Greg's huff escaped him as a mortifying sob. He cringed, reaching up to try and dry his eyes. "I see several people cry a day, Greg. Frankly, when they don't, I start to wonder if I'm losing my touch."

"M'still sorry. I only just walked through the door. I'm a mess."

As Mycroft produced a handkerchief from his sleeve with a small, theatrical flourish, Greg began to laugh.

"F-Fuck. Don't," he begged. "Please don't make me laugh and cry at once. I won't survive."

"Come here," Mycroft said, his voice soft. He set about tidying Greg up: little dabs around his eyes, gentle. "There, now. That particular ice is nicely broken. I'm glad. May we please use this evening to talk about your relationship with Helen?"

Greg's throat contracted. The words seemed to clog in place, frightened to leave him. "Jesus," he whispered.

Mycroft processed this reaction, seeming unsurprised. "Can I say something?"

"S-sure. Go on."

"I moved Helen into my colleague's care for various reasons. One of them was so that you can be certain I am  _ your  _ therapist, Greg. I'm not torn between the two of you, attempting to juggle my duty of care. It means that if there's something you wish to confide in me, you can do so in absolute safety and trust, knowing that my focus, my belief and my support are yours and yours alone."

Greg wished he understood why it hurt—why having someone care about him stung like hot salt through his blood.

"How'd you know I'd have something to confide?" he asked, gazing through tears.

Mycroft held his gaze; brief reluctance crossed his expression. "A professional instinct," he said.

_ Fuck. _

Greg took a breath.

"She treats me like... like if they found me dead tomorrow, she'd just..." He shrugged. He looked down at his hands, numb and in tears. "Sometimes I think if she was the man, and I was... I almost think people would maybe worry for me."

Mycroft took this on board, gently. "What worries would they have?" he asked.

"If I'm being..."  _ Christ, don't make me say it.  _ "Y'know. Pushed around."

"It's very possible for a woman to abuse her male partner," Mycroft murmured, and something lurched up into the back of Greg's throat. "Less commonly shown in mass media, but it's something I've encountered many times."

"She's not  _ abusing _ me," Greg said at once. "Jesus, it's not like... i-it's not that serious. She's never hit me or anything."

"No?" Mycroft watched him gently, listening. "What sort of things would make people worry?"

"The way she speaks to me, maybe. The way nothing's ever good enough. The way it's... I work late as often as I can, just so I don't have to..." Greg hesitated; he pulled his hands together, rubbing the back of his knuckles in search of comfort. "My sister thinks I deserve better. Lisa. She says Helen bullies me. I told her we're not at school anymore, but I can't stop thinking about it."

Mycroft hummed.

"I'd like to hear more about that," he said, as he raised himself to his feet, brushing down his knees. "Let me get you a warm drink, first. Then we'll sit and have a chat."

*

Gathering his mug of tea against his chest, Greg looked up into Mycroft's eyes. 

"Kinda feels like you can finally see me properly. Is that weird?" He paused, reading Mycroft's expression. "M'sorry I didn't tell you sooner. It just... it seemed like a lot to dump onto a stranger. Maybe I've got so used to putting on a happy face that it started to feel like my own."

Mycroft seemed to understand. He nodded, watching Greg drink his tea.

"It always takes a session or two for walls to come down," he said. "I'm glad they have, Greg. I hope I'm starting to feel a little less of a stranger."

_ God. _

"M'glad, too," Greg said. He hesitated, trying not to feel the tightening of his heart. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Mycroft's forehead creased. "Whatever for?"

Greg flushed. "Going through with it," he said. "Marriage, I mean. Even when..."

"No," Mycroft murmured, and Greg believed it with every fraction of his heart. He'd never been given such a look of reassurance in his life. "No, Greg. Not in the least. You responded to an extremely difficult situation in the way that felt most right to you at the time. If you would now respond differently, or if your feelings have changed, we can talk about that. But there's no reason to reproach yourself, let alone allow anyone else to do so."

Greg's flush deepened. He looked down into his mug, rubbing his thumb against the side.

"You make me feel really normal," he mumbled. "You've always... I-I don't know what it is. You make me feel at home in myself."

He looked up at Mycroft, watching his expression soften as he spoke.

"Out there, every decision I ever make seems to be wrong," Greg said. "Then in here, it's just... I feel like I make some sort of sense again."

"I lament this world," Mycroft murmured, "that it has made a perfectly capable, reasonable and intelligent man feel he isn't to be trusted with his own decisions."

_ God.  _ "Y-you're kind," Greg said. "You're talking nonsense, but..."

Mycroft almost smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not a purveyor of nonsense. Tough love from time to time, but never nonsense."

"Yeah?" Greg risked a nervous smile in return, hoping he wouldn't regret this. "Give me some tough love."

"Now?"

"Mm."

Mycroft thought about it for a moment, easing one leg over the other. 

"Audbrey Hepburn once said that if she got married, she wanted to be  _ really  _ married. I think your younger self might have said something similar." He considered Greg gently over his glasses. "I'm not sure your current self could say that happened."

_ Ouch.  _ Greg took a few seconds to retrieve his heart from the floor, brush off the dust and put it back.

"That's fair," he said. It hurt to hell, but it was fair. He let himself soak it into his soul for another moment or two, drawing a silent breath. "M'trying, though. Putting the work in. That's what matters. Right?"

Mycroft tilted his head, his gaze as gentle as ever. "Tell me about Helen, Greg."

"What is it you want to know?"

"Tell me about daily life with her."

_ Where to fucking start?  _ Greg smiled a little at the thought; it faded quickly on his mouth. "Honestly?"

"Mm," Mycroft said. "Between you and me."

Greg's heart tightened. 

"It's... exhausting," he said. "Sometimes I stand back and look, and I just... w-we want completely different things. Not just for the future, but..." 

He shook his head, looking away across the office.

"We're one of those couples that just don't agree," he said. "About anything. If I bought chicken, she wants lamb. If I've already made lamb, she hates lamb and I'm an arsehole who cooked it on purpose just to wind her up. I've booked a cottage in Dorset for Christmas. Got no idea if we'll be actually going. And it's our anniversary soon. I haven't even picked a restaurant yet, but I know I've already fucked up. It's just..."

"Just?" Mycroft prompted. 

Greg's chest pulled. He let himself frown, giving into it. 

"I used to try and figure out her pattern," he said. "What pisses her off. What she'll hate. M'starting to get the feeling I know what it is."

"Mm?" Mycroft waited, listening. "What is it?"

Greg looked up into his eyes. He gripped his mug. 

"Me," he said. "It's... i-it's never the actual choices I make. It's the fact  _ I _ made them. I've asked her five times where she wants to go for our anniversary, but she won't tell me. Because she won't know where she hates until I've told her that that's where I've booked."

Mycroft nodded gently, listening without comment.

"Like with Christmas," Greg went on, shakily. "I'll either be an arsehole for dragging her to Dorset or an arsehole for cancelling her holiday. She'll decide in the second that I make a decision. She won't tell me what she wants because that's not the point. What she wants is to rip into me. I've almost thought about testing it. Like... writing things down a day in advance, then... is that insane? That's scary, isn't it? Experimenting on her like that."

Mycroft said nothing, still watching him with a look of greatest sympathy.

"Why does she do it?" Greg asked, his heart beating hard. "Why would... what do people ever get out of acting like that?"

Mycroft drew a long breath, visibly arranging his thoughts before he shared them. 

"Purposely provoking arguments," he said, "can sometimes simply be a way to secure a partner's attention. It can sometimes suggest a desire to communicate on a subject which seems too uncomfortable to broach openly. No conversation ever feels like the right conversation, and so frustration builds and begins to steam out. It can also be a way to 'test' our worth in the eyes of our loved ones, seeing how far we can push them away before they give up on us entirely."

Greg's heart pulled. Before he could speak, Mycroft went on.

"There are also certain personality types," he added, "for whom dominance over a partner's emotions is expected as standard. Setting impossible challenges can be a way to undermine their partner's self-confidence and emotional security. In such instances, it's often accompanied by behaviours such as gaslighting."

A quiet, unsettling tightness seemed to wrap itself around Greg's lungs. 

"What's gaslighting?" he asked.

"A form of abuse," Mycroft said, "in which the victim is manipulated into doubting their own sanity. It's distressingly common."

_ Holy shit.  _ "You mean... making someone think they're going mad?" Greg said. "On purpose?"

"Mm. It involves casting doubt over someone's memories and their perceptions until they feel unable to trust their own senses. The term comes from a play written in the thirties, in which a husband slowly dims the gas lights in the home he shares with his wife, all the while convincing her she's imagining the change."

"Y-yikes." Greg suddenly recalled his cup of tea. He took a nervous drink, letting the heat settle the strange pattering of his pulse. "So why, erm... why is Helen starting arguments? Which of the... why d'you think it is?"

Mycroft briefly lowered his gaze. 

"I'm afraid I can't draw conclusions about someone I've met only once," he said. "It would be irresponsible of me to do so. All I can do is help you reach your own impressions."

Greg's stomach squirmed uncomfortably.  _ You're not ruling it out. You're not... you're not saying that's not happening. _

"What do I do about Dorset?" he asked, searching Mycroft's face.

Mycroft smiled faintly. "What would you like to do about Dorset?"

"Erm... not get shouted at, ideally. Just have a quiet Christmas." Greg looked down at his hands, holding in a sigh. "A few months ago, I thought it'd be a good idea. The two of us, somewhere peaceful. Try and reconnect, maybe. But now I'm..."

He shook his head, suppressing a shiver. He lifted his mug to his mouth and took a drink.

"Now I'm dreading it," he mumbled. "Whether we go or not. It's getting to the point where I have to cancel if I want the deposit back. And there's our anniversary too. Another pit for me to fall down."

"As an idea for the anniversary," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow, "you could always present her with a shortlist of three, asking her to make the final choice between them. It's not guaranteed to work, but it might shift some of the weight of responsibility from your shoulders."

Something in Greg's chest stirred. It was worth a try, he thought. It would make it harder for her to shout at him, at least.

"And Dorset?" he asked, squeezing his mug.

Mycroft gave him a look of quiet reassurance. "An opportunity to test a theory," he said, "if nothing else. Tell her you cancelled the booking, let her express her thoughts on the matter, then in a few days miraculously recover the booking. I'd be interested to hear her reaction."

Quietly overwhelmed, Greg took a sip of tea. 

"I'll give it a try," he mumbled. He hesitated, trying to pull together a smile. "If I don't show up for my appointment one week, ring Scotland Yard, will you? Tell them DI Lestrade is buried in his own garden."

Mycroft huffed, softly.

"I assure you such an eventuality will not be occurring," he said. "Not on my watch."

_ Christ.  _ The tiny hairs on the back of Greg's neck lifted onto end. There was quiet for a moment in the room, and Greg became aware of how comfortable he'd made himself on the couch, settled sideways as if he lived here. 

"May I ask an intimate question?" Mycroft asked him.

Greg's pulse seemed to quicken. "Sure," he said, bracing himself behind a sip of tea and a neutral expression. "Go ahead."

"How are you feeling about the lack of sex?" Mycroft said.

Greg thought about it, trying to sort what he felt from what he suspected he should feel.  _ Been honest all evening,  _ he supposed.  _ Shame to stop. _

"It's not a priority right now," he said. "It's... I mean, it wasn't  _ a priority _ before. I just mean I'm... I guess I'm not stressing it." He hesitated, glancing up to find Mycroft's gaze waiting for him. "The books help. And I'm, erm... y'know. Performing routine system maintenance."

Mycroft's eyes glittered. "Thank you for sparing my innocent ears from the word masturbation."

_ Oh, Christ.  _ "Well, y'know. I don't want to make you blush."

"Are you finding it's a comfort?"

"It's..."  _ Yikes.  _ "It's a relief. It's... getting me to sleep at night. Leaves me feeling a bit lonely sometimes. Wishing somebody was there."

"Somebody?" Mycroft paused, quietly reading his face. "Helen?"

Greg laughed, a little more nervously than he'd intended. 

"I, erm... I kinda struggle to maintain any sort of..." He threw up scare quotes, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.  _ "Fantasy _ where Hel's... well, doing anything but shouting at me. It's weird, thinking about that. Used to be okay with... y'know, memories. Things we did in the past. But even that's weird now."

The silence stretched. Greg pulled at his lip, supposing it was better said than kept.

"Honestly, right now, if she tried to initiate any sort of... y'know..."

"Sex," Mycroft said, gently.

"Mhm," Greg said, and flushed. "Sex. I don't know, I'd probably wonder what she's up to. If she's going to rip it off or something."

"Mm. I can see why that might make maintaining a fantasy difficult."

"Is it, erm... is it a problem that the idea of fantasising about my own actual wife sounds like the sleaziest fucking thing in the world?"

"I wouldn't say it's a problem. It's  _ understandable, _ with things as they are. Rather chivalrous if anything."

"Right..." Greg hesitated, holding his tea against his chest. "Shouldn't I feel guilty?"

"Guilty?"

"I don't know. Fantasising about other people. It's never  _ real  _ people. It's usually... y-y'know, characters from the stories. Or just... I don't know, just not real people."

Mycroft gave him an entirely reassuring look. 

"You should not feel guilty," he said. "Not in the least. Even fantasies about people known to you would be no reason for guilt. In the comfort and privacy of your own mind, Greg, your soul should feel safe to explore itself."

Greg's throat gave a strange twist.

Mycroft smiled a little, watching him and waiting. "What are you concerned isn't normal?" he asked.

_ Oh, Jesus.  _ "Nothing. It's... j-just my weird mind."

"Whatever it is, I assure you I've heard it before." Mycroft tilted his head. "And I could assure you it's nothing to worry about."

Thinking of the books on Mycroft's shelf, Greg looked down at his hands.

"I, erm... myself. Sometimes." Heat burned across his face. "Like a... a second me. A better me. Talking to me. Taking care of me." He looked away across the office, pulling in a breath. "I-I don't know why, it's just... I feel safe that way."

Mycroft smiled, his gaze gentle and unconcerned.

"Because half of your soul wishes to save the other half," he said. "It wants to comfort you, Greg. Tend to you. Supply to you those soft human pleasures that you fully and utterly deserve."

Greg's throat sealed shut, his shoulders shaking in an instant.

"You know on some level that you're worth more," Mycroft went on. "Far more than you are being given. Your unconscious mind is prepared to fill that vacancy for now. It wants to offer you self-love and self-care until you reach a situation where a lover can be trusted to take over those duties. Self-fantasy is an  _ extremely _ reassuring indication of a mind which still values itself, a mind which is prepared to strengthen and care for itself. I could not be more delighted to hear it."

Incapable of speech, Greg settled for a mute and shaky nod. He looked down into his tea, watching its surface reflect the light from the nearby lamp.

"Why do you stay, Greg?" Mycroft asked, his voice a thousand miles away. "What are you getting from the marriage?"

Greg's eyes shut. The answer left him as if he'd been waiting to say it for months, holding it just there in his mouth.

"I don't like giving up on things," he said. He swallowed, tightening his hold around his mug. "Don't want to get old on my own. She... w-when it was new, she... she couldn't get enough of me. Really seemed to want me."

He hesitated, letting his throat muscles unclench.

"Seemed to need me," he said. "And I like that. Being needed. I've always been weak for that. S'probably why... y-y'know, with the baby."

Mycroft nodded quietly, listening.

With a settling breath, Greg drained the last of his tea.

"She doesn't need me much now," he mumbled. "Except to cook her food, of course. Pay the bills. Drive the car."

"She seems to need you for rather a lot," Mycroft remarked.

"Y-Yeah," Greg huffed, empty. "Yeah, it's... a different sort of need I want. Helen needs me like she needs the bin emptying once a fortnight." 

He hesitated, looking down at his lap.

"I want someone to need me like... like if it was all gone," he said, "all of it tomorrow... car repossessed, house burned down... we'd share a box under a bridge together. I'd watch over them while they sleep."

Mycroft exhaled gently, the sound small in the silence. "Them?"

Greg looked up. "Sorry?"

"You often reference a theoretical lover as 'them'," Mycroft murmured. "I don't think I've ever once heard you contemplate another 'her'."

"Can you blame me?" Greg asked, prompting a smile.

"Is it a woman you imagine?" Mycroft asked. Something in Greg's chest gave a nervous pull. "Beside you beneath the bridge."

Greg didn't know if he dared to answer that. Judging from the look on Mycroft's face, he didn't need to. He inhaled, pushing the thoughts out of reach, and brushed a weary hand over the back of his neck.

"It's not anyone," he mumbled. "It's... theoretical. Fantasy. Who else would have me?"

Mycroft's expression dropped.  _ "Greg." _

"I'm serious. C'mon, Mycroft, don't look at me like that. I'm ageing like an onion someone kicked beneath the fridge."

Mycroft drew a stiff breath, lifting himself from the sofa. 

"Up, please," he said. "Come with me."

Greg blinked, sitting straight. "Why? Where are we going?"

"Ananya's office," Mycroft said. He retrieved a bunch of keys from his desk and sorted through them as he spoke. "There's a technique I think will benefit you enormously. I'm tempted to end all your sessions with it, in fact."

Warily Greg got up from the sofa, brushing down his lap.

"Does it involve stickers?" he asked.

"No," Mycroft said, flashing him a brief smile. "But we will need a mirror. This way."

*

The man in the glass gave a faint smile as Greg appeared. He eyed the nine o'clock scruff of Greg's hair with approval, then glanced at the fit of his jeans, appraising the way his hands looked held in his pockets. He was glad he'd had time to change after work. When he bought them, Greg had worried these jeans were a bit too young for him—a bit too close-fitting and trendy—but they weren't half-bad, really. 

The unfamiliar office framing his reflection was softly draped in shadow. A single lamp by the door warmed the darkness; Mycroft had left all the rest of them switched off. This space had a whisper of high-end perfume about it, something slightly softer in its furnishings, and there was a box of toys and teddies beside the couches.

As Mycroft eased into view, standing just behind him, Greg watched his own expression soften.

"This will seem entirely odd the first time," Mycroft murmured, placing his hands on Greg's upper arms. "Each time it will become easier. I promise you. I'd like you to look into your own eyes, please."

Greg did so, exhaling. He let Mycroft loosen out his shoulders for him.

"Take your breathing a little deeper," Mycroft said. "There... that's it. Wonderful. As you breathe, I'd like you to separate yourself very gently from this person you can see. I'd like you to look at him there and take him as he is, unconnected to you. A different person. A stranger on the street."

Greg inhaled, slowly, concentrating on distancing his mind from the sight of his own eyes. Mycroft's thumbs were rubbing circles on his shoulder blades, slowing down his breathing, and it helped. With Mycroft behind him and the glass close in front of him, he could almost trick himself that he was standing between two people. They were gathered around him, shielding him.

Mycroft's voice seemed to come from inside his own mind, close and gentle beneath his skin.

"I'd like you to look at the lines in his face," Mycroft murmured. "The shapes formed by his hair... the texture of his clothing. How it sits upon his body."

Greg let his eyes trail downwards, taking it all in. 

"Good," Mycroft said, softly. Greg's heart gave a gentle, dizzy bump. "Very good... hold that temporary distance in your mind for me. Let him be a person of his own, a human body outside of your own. We're going to list things that you and I like about him."

Nervous heat blossomed over Greg's face. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Mycroft hummed, with a flicker of his gaze into Greg's. His pupils were huge in the dim light. A ripple of warmth and admiration fluttered down Greg's back. "To begin, I like the way his face shows every flash of his emotions. I like the depth of utter honesty in his eyes. It makes him wonderfully easy to trust."

Greg's cheeks burned like hot coals. "Oh god," he mumbled, hardly daring to look at himself.

"I also like the colour of his hair," Mycroft added. He glanced at Greg's tousled mess of grey and silver. "I like its thickness and its texture. It's very striking."

Greg's heart seemed to give a small squeak, shying away behind his ribs.  _ What else?  _ he asked in silence, saying nothing.

"I like the comfort in the way he stands," Mycroft went on, softly. "Hands in his pockets. He seems very settled, very confident. Very at ease. What do you like?"

Toes curling in his shoes, Greg lifted his nervous gaze to Mycroft's. "I don't know what to say. I like his clothes?"

"Interesting. What about his clothes?"

"They're, erm... they suit me? I like these jeans. M'glad they fit alright."

"They do suit  _ him," _ Mycroft murmured. "This man you and I haven't met. And his jumper makes his shoulders seem broad, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, god."

"I like that he's clearly kept himself well. He's still very healthy and fit. It gives him the sort of vibrancy and youthfulness that is always universally attractive."

"C-Christ. Mycroft."  _ Say more stuff.  _ "I, erm... I guess I'm still passing all my fitness tests at work. Got lucky with my genes." Greg hesitated, flushing as he glanced at his own face. "I like m—... his eyes."

"Mm. I do, too. What about his eyes?"

"Kinda like their colour. It's... they're nice eyes."

"Expressive. Big and dark."

An odd shiver spilled its way down Greg's spine. "Yeah?" he said without thinking, and looked into Mycroft's face. His heart performed a restless flip. "Meant to be alright, aren't they? Big dark eyes."

Mycroft seemed to take a moment to put something away in his mind.

"The evidence is before us," he said at last. "We only need look at him to see it."

_ God.  _ "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so..."

Mycroft's gaze lowered gently from the mirror, leaving Greg to look into his own face instead. His flush had now settled high in his cheeks; it was pretty. He realised he liked the darkness all around them, the two of them safe and close together. He liked the feeling that no one else in all of London really mattered for a minute or two.

He liked how easy Mycroft seemed to find this game.

"The truth is," Mycroft murmured at his shoulder, and every cell in Greg's body relaxed and listened, "there are many reasons why someone would find themselves attracted to you, Greg. You are a compelling, confident and very likeable man. Your outward appearance has a wonderful personality attached to it. I don't believe for even a moment that nobody would have you."

"You're kind," Greg managed. His heart was threatening to rupture through his ribs. "You're... it's nice of you, I mean. I don't—" 

_ Yikes. _

"—h-hear it all that often these days."

"A reflection on your partner," Mycroft said, peering over his glasses. "Not on you."

_ She really didn't endear herself to you... did she?  _ Greg had a strange feeling it should bother him more. He was probably meant to defend his wife against even indirect accusations of misdoing—but all he really felt was understanding. Helen formed conclusions about people in the second she laid eyes on them. If she decided they weren't worth her time or attention, she didn't care in the slightest if they knew it. Greg wouldn't be surprised to hear she'd rubbed Mycroft up the wrong way.

He almost wondered what it had been like, just the two of them in that office—what they'd discussed; how hard she'd probably made Mycroft work just to maintain a civil conversation.

"Are we going to do this again next week?" Greg asked, covering his faint flutter of guilt with a smile.

Mycroft smiled, too. "We are," he said. "How does that make you feel?"

"It's... fine," Greg said, blushing. "I don't mind. Besides, you're the expert. You know what'll help."

Mycroft raised a gentle eyebrow. "Does it seem like this might?"

Greg met his eyes in the glass; his heart thumped. 

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I think so."

*

Ten o'clock arrived without a speck of effort. They'd been here together for three hours, drifting between therapy and simply talking, ending up side by side on Mycroft's couch.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked, as the gentle chimes of his wall clock petered out.

"Better," Greg said, with a breath. "A  _ lot _ better. I'm not anxious like I was last night. Kinda feel at peace."

Mycroft's gaze warmed to its depths.

"Good," he murmured. He sat forwards a little and stretched. "I'm very glad we had this time. I'd say we've made a lot of progress, wouldn't you?"

"Tons. It's... been really helpful," Greg said. "Thank you."

"Not in the least," Mycroft said. He arched his back with a small wince. "Sometimes things are better worked through quite intensively. Sometimes it's nice to have time for reflection between sessions. Would a week's reflection seem reasonable now?"

_ I'd come and spend another three hours tomorrow if you were free. Every night. Just sit here and... bond. _

"I should survive," Greg said, trying to smile. It felt a little strange upon his mouth. "Do I get new books to keep me busy?"

"You do," Mycroft said. He rose up from the sofa with a stretch. "Any particular requests? Are you still enjoying shorter stories?"

_ More enjoying the men.  _ "Yeah. They're, erm... they're easier to read."

"I'll see what I can find you. Are you happy for us to finish the session here? Is there anything else I can lift from your shoulders?"

Greg shook his head. "Nothing urgent."

"Wonderful," Mycroft murmured. "Let me fetch your coat for you."

As Greg slid his jacket on, he noted Mycroft retrieving his own coat from the hat stand. It was a gorgeous dark grey fabric, knee length and clearly well made; Greg had wondered before if it belonged to Mycroft. He slowed his movements a little on purpose, then fetched their empty mugs to Mycroft's tea tray as Mycroft gathered up notes on his desk.

"How kind," Mycroft remarked, securing the papers quickly in a box file. "If you don't mind, I'll be leaving with you."

"No, I don't mind. Not at all." Greg slid his hands into his pockets, wishing they weren't trembling. "Take your time. I'm not in a rush."

Mycroft cast him a gentle glance, retrieving a laptop case from his desk drawer. 

"I hope it was expected that you'd be returning home this late?" he said.

_ She doesn't care if I'm alive or dead,  _ Greg thought. _ Late won't matter. _

"It's alright," he said. "She knew I was going to be out. And she does Zumba on a Thursday, anyway. They head for drinks after. She only gets in at midnight sometimes." He offered out his hands. "Can I help—?"

"Ah—you star. Thank you." As Greg held the case, Mycroft slid his laptop with care inside it. "Very kind of you."

"S'alright. My fault you're here this late."

"I think you'll find it was my pleasure. And I hardly have anybody waiting for me by the front door."

_ You should,  _ Greg thought, his throat thickening.  _ Someone amazing. Somebody who can't get enough of you. _

"Shall I get the lights?" he asked.

Mycroft fished his ball of keys from inside his desk. "You're becoming indispensable, Greg. Thank you."

They paused just outside Mycroft's door for him to lock it, then moved through the empty reception area together, turning off lights and locking doors as they went. Greg found himself fishing for conversation topics in desperation, trying to choose something that wasn't either wildly dull or stupidly trivial. All his brain could offer him was politics and the weather. It seemed wiser somehow to stay quiet. He followed Mycroft quietly downstairs through the darkness, hands in the pockets of his coat.

On the doorstep, as Mycroft pocketed his keys, Greg realised with unsettling distress that the moment to say goodbye was upon them. It seemed to have come out of nowhere tonight, no easier for several hours together.

They met eyes, awkward, and Mycroft smiled a little.

"Are you parked far away?" he asked.

Greg tried his hardest to smile in return, wishing this didn't feel like rising panic. 

"Not far," he said, gesturing over one shoulder. His heart thudded restlessly against his ribs. "Just a bit further down." Desperate to delay for a few more seconds, he asked, "Whereabouts are you—?"

"Oh, I'm not. I don't. Drive, that is." Mycroft retrieved his phone from inside his coat, shivering slightly as he checked the time. "I don't live particularly far from here, so I'll often walk or take the tube. I, ah... may treat myself to a taxi on this occasion. I'm sure the temperature justifies the expense."

He began to flash through screens of apps, searching for the one he needed.

It took Greg all of a second to decide that he dared.

"I could give you a lift," he said. Mycroft's eyes lifted from his phone in surprise. "You'll be waiting ages for a taxi," Greg added, his pulse skittering as Mycroft scanned his face. "Wouldn't be a problem. How far is not particularly far?"

Mycroft seemed to make a very swift calculation. He reached his conclusion with a breath.

"That would be very kind of you," he said. "If you're certain, Greg. I wouldn't want to be an inconvenience."

"Certain I'm certain," Greg said in a rush. It felt like dodging death—like leaping out of the path of a car. He was smiling before he could stop himself. "Seriously, Myc, it's the least I can do."

The little nickname prompted an immediate quirk of a smile, some thought wiped clean from Mycroft's expression.

"No Myc?" Greg said, flushing.

"It's not my usual," Mycroft admitted, "but... well, I'm sure I can make an allowance." His eyes sparkled. "In light of your kindness."

"A lift home counts as 'great kindness'?" Greg said. "You need better friends, mate. C'mon. I'm parked just down here."


	15. Theoreticals

_ Like we've been out somewhere,  _ Greg thought, switching on the radio as Mycroft adjusted his seatbelt.  _ Out for dinner. First date. Like we're headed back to yours for coffee.  _

"Have you seen Sherlock lately?" he asked to fill the silence, switching on the ignition.

Mycroft gave a soft snort from the passenger seat. 

"He only ever contacts me when he's in need of something," he said as the car pulled away from the kerb. He brushed something delicately off one knee. "Money, usually."

Greg wasn't overly surprised to hear it. Sherlock seemed to maintain a pool of human resources, rather than friends. It was unlikely he made a particularly affectionate brother.

Greg cast Mycroft a slight smile in the rear view mirror. 

"He doesn't come to you for therapy, then?" he said.

Mycroft visibly enjoyed the thought, amusement playing around his mouth. "Sadly not," he said. "Chance would be a fine thing."

"Surely you couldn't give your own brother therapy. That'd be a hell of a mess, wouldn't it?"

"I've contemplated this subject several times over the years. I've come to the conclusion it would either be tremendously productive or a cataclysmic disaster."

As they joined the main road, Mycroft watched the other cars absently through the windshield. Greg tried not to watch him watching them. 

"Far more efficient in a way," Mycroft remarked after a moment, thoughtful. His gaze was soft and a little sleepy behind his glasses. "Undergoing therapy with somone who already knows  _ precisely _ how your parents failed you."

Greg smiled, helpless. He couldn't really picture the two people who had produced Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. They'd be a hell of a pair, whoever they were.

"Can't imagine Sherlock taking you up on the offer," he admitted.

Mycroft sighed.

"Mhm. I think he'd rather I simply shot him in the head. The contents of my brother's skull are very much for his eyes only." Smiling, he glanced across at Greg in the darkness. His eyes were bright as stars. "Shame," he remarked. "There's an entire doctorate worth of material there."

_ Christ, if you were mine,  _ Greg thought.  _ If we just lived like this. Easy conversations in the car. _

"You should submit him to a journal," he said, as a Jess Glynne track rolled around in his shuffled playlist. It made him smile. "Do a case study on him, y'know. You could end up famous."

Mycroft's chuckle rumbled through his senses. "Alas, I fear Sherlock would retaliate in kind. He's just as capable of analysing me as I am him, and he'd be a great deal less kind. A dose of my own medicine is the last thing I require."

"Best not go there?" Greg suggested.

"Mm," Mycroft agreed, turning his contented gaze back to the traffic. "Very much for the best."

The quiet settled between them, cosy.

"I've never asked what your siblings do," Mycroft commented after a minute or two, mildly.

Greg smiled a little. "Probably 'cause it'd take half our session to go through them all."

"Very true," Mycroft said—then added, "I suppose there's also the fact I don't care. You're interesting enough on your own."

Greg didn't know whether to laugh or not. 

"Professionally interesting?" he checked, keeping his eyes on the road. "Are you submitting  _ me _ to a journal?"

"Heavens, no. I mean personally interesting."

Greg's insides squirmed. "I'm not  _ personally _ interesting."

"Do you think I'd have made time in my schedule for someone I find personally dull?" Mycroft asked, amused. Greg squeezed the wheel in both hands, trying not to smile, trying to remind himself he was sitting next to his therapist and not his date. Mycroft subtly recrossed his legs. "This music is very relaxing. What is it?"

_ Argh.  _

"I, erm... I think it's Jess Glynne," Greg said, as casually as he could. "Spotify recommended her to me. Not my usual thing, but..." He pretended to glance at the dashboard. "Song's called  _ Broken." _

"Mhm." Mycroft rested his head back against the seat. "Music to make love to."

_ Christ. That's—  _

_ Well, it is now. _

"D'you listen to much music?" Greg asked, hoping his facial expression looked more normal than it felt.

"Ah. Very little composed after the eighteenth century, I'm afraid."

"Oh, so... classical music? That's cool."

Mycroft gave him a pat on the knee. "Bless your heart," he said, "pandering to me."

Greg laughed. "I'm not pandering to you," he protested, and risked a quick glance sideways. He found Mycroft gazing at him with the warmest look he'd ever received from that seat. "I think it's good," he said, grinning. "Honestly. It's cool how intelligent you are. And we're all different."

The quiet hugged around them, happy and gentle.

Mycroft tilted his head in the darkness. "You're marvellously easy to be with, Greg."

Greg kept his eyes on the tail lights up ahead. 

"Yeah?" he murmured. It came out before he could stop it. "Someone should tell my wife."

Mycroft watched him drive for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. "If you had the choice all over again," he asked, "would you choose her?"

Greg stared into the traffic until his heart had calmed. "I don't know if I can answer that, to be honest."

"Why?" Mycroft asked, softly.

Greg pushed his tongue around his cheek. 

"'Cause you'll want to talk about it," he said. "For my own good. You'll... push me towards things I can't do. Choices I should make. I'll disappoint you by not doing them, and I don't want to disappoint you."

"Then let's say just in theory," Mycroft murmured. Greg tightened his hands around the wheel, feeling the truth rise up in his throat. "Just between the two of us. If I could grant you one wish, what would it be?"

Greg's heart ached. 

_ Just one?  _ he thought.  _ One wish to make it all alright.  _

He tried it out in his mouth,  _ make her be in love me, make her kind to me.  _ He hated how quickly he pushed it aside. That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted love that had grown from its own roots, grown by itself and grown strong. 

_ Make me young again?  _ he thought, then realised he would have lived the same life. He'd have thought the same things, made the same decisions, experienced it all exactly the same. Marrying Hel was the only choice he could have made. He'd imagined it so keenly—holding a blanket bundle in his arms, some small person asleep against his chest—not their fault, none of it. Not their fault they'd come into creation. Greg's choice had been whether to condemn someone to a life with just Helen and her family, or to give them a proper chance. He could be the father who rescued them before they were even born.

And he couldn't sit here now, pretending he'd ever have done anything else.

Reaching his answer, Greg swallowed back the lump in his throat.

"Give me somebody to love," he said. He drew a breath, glad of the road, glad of the wheel, glad he didn't have to look anywhere right now but straight ahead. "Give me somebody who'll miss me. Somebody who'll listen out for my car in the drive."

"Helen?" Mycroft said, gently. "A boyfriend? A husband?"

_ Fuck.  _ Greg breathed it away at once, almost laughing. 

"Are we really doing this now?" he said. "I'm not gay. I wasn't ever gay. I just wanted to be."

"I'd argue there's a single major reason," Mycroft said, "for a man to wish he could be gay."

Greg's stomach twisted. "Look," he said, "it's... I-I was just a kid. I wanted attention. I wanted to think I was different to everyone else. I didn't actually, seriously... not like you. Not like real gay people. I didn't ever—"

"—have sex with other men?"

"Erm—okay, sure, but it wasn't..."

"If I offered you passage to an alternate universe," Mycroft said, "in which you  _ are  _ gay, Greg, and not merely  _ wanting  _ to be... would you take it?"

_ Christ.  _ "W-What's the point of all these theoreticals?" Greg asked, shakily. "What good's it going to do?"

Mycroft didn't spare him. "The point is that it might not be theoretical."

Greg forced himself to breathe, fixing his eyes on the car in front.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Okay, I... I get what you're doing. And I get you're doing it now so I can't run away, and I know you're doing it for my own good. But... listen, I don't think you understand that you're jabbing at the last remaining column of my sanity with a stick. And no good will come of you knocking it out."

"Unless I'm actually jabbing at the padlock on your cage," Mycroft said.

_ Holy fuck.  _ "Yes, well—okay," Greg returned, pale, "but who suffers if you're wrong?"

"You," Mycroft said, calmly. "But I wouldn't push if I thought I might be wrong. Incidentally, I could give the same answer to the question,  _ who is suffering now? Who will continue to suffer if nothing changes?" _

Greg's jaw tightened. He worked to loosen it, breathing out.

"You're like my sister," he said. "You're... you both... sweep in holding words like 'divorce' and 'gay' and expect me to shrug and... Christ, I'm not that selfish."

Mycroft hummed. 

"I never expected you to shrug," he said, as Greg's sat-nav turned them down the correct street at last, announcing that their destination was imminent. "Is this the same sister who believes that Helen bullies you?"

Something caved in the back of Greg's heart. "God help me," he mumbled, slowing the car.

"Mm. I'd rather you let your sister and I help you," Mycroft remarked. He drew a breath, laying a hand upon his laptop case. "I'm just on the right here, if you would."

Greg pulled to a stop by the kerb, wishing he couldn't hear his own heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't think. As the engine switched off, wiping out Jess Glynne and plunging them into silence, his pulse got so much louder.

He turned to Mycroft in the darkness, entirely lost for what to say. 

Mycroft watched him gently, his face cast in shadow. His expression was perfectly calm.

The silence pulled between them.

"I'm not gay," Greg said. The quiet stretched on, echoing. "It's too late for that. Years too late."

Mycroft's forehead furrowed. "I didn't realise there's an expiry date on same sex attraction," he said.

"There was on mine," Greg said. He swallowed, hard. "And I got a certificate to prove it. A marriage certificate. A marriage certificate I don't have the strength to swap for a divorce certificate. Not now. Not after all this. If you expect me just to chuck it all in and run, just because it didn't turn out exactly like I wanted, you don't have the measure of me at all."

Mycroft hummed.

"Alright," he said.

The word came out of nowhere. Greg hit it like a brick wall, reeling. He searched Mycroft's face. 

"What—what do you mean?" he said.

Mycroft smiled reassuringly, reaching a hand behind him for the door. 

"I mean it's alright," he said. "You're heterosexual, Greg. You're happy staying married to your wife. Your same sex lovers were meaningless experimentation, no more, and I shan't broach the topic again."

He opened the door. Greg stared at him, lost, his heart thundering.

"Thank you for the lift," Mycroft said, easing out of the car. "It's very much appreciated. I hope the week treats you well."

_ Wait—wait, I...  _

"Sure," Greg said, numb. "Yeah, I... y-yeah. No problem."

Mycroft smiled, one last time, and shut the door with a clunk.

Unbreathing, Greg watched him stroll away along the pavement. He stared without a sound as Mycroft casually retrieved his keys from inside his coat, sought through them and approached what must be the door to his building.

As he fitted his key into the lock, Greg's hand reached itself towards the door.

He was at Mycroft's side before he knew what he was doing.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, I..." He put out his arm, stopping Mycroft from disappearing inside. "Please don't think I... i-it's not that I'm..."

Mycroft looked up at him in silence, watching him struggle, his hand still on his keys.

Greg released a long-held breath. 

"I'm not happy," he managed, shaking. "With Helen. I like men. I always liked men. I  _ still _ like them. I just... Christ, I don't want you to... you can't just expect me to..." His heart strained. "Please. Please don't. You don't understand how fucking small I am."

Mycroft's expression softened. In silence, he let go of his keys and laid his laptop on the ground at his side. He took a quiet step nearer, reached out, and put both arms around Greg's shoulders.

Without a word, he pulled him close.

_ God. _

Gathered safe against the collar of Mycroft's coat, Greg let his eyes fall shut. 

Mycroft didn't speak for some time, simply holding Greg, giving his pulse time to slow. 

He then tilted his head and murmured in Greg's ear.

"I'd like you to type the phrase 'sunk cost fallacy' into a search engine," he said softly. The words seemed to drift through Greg's soul, settling and swirling like ink dropped into water. "We'll talk about it at your next appointment. Mm?"

Shaking, Greg didn't respond. He couldn't remember putting his arms around Mycroft's back. Now he had, he didn't want to let go.

Mycroft hummed, keeping hold of him still.

"Have you put a passcode on your phone?" he asked.

Greg shook his head.

"You'd be entirely within your rights," Mycroft murmured. "If anyone should be offering access to their phone in the name of trust and reassurance, it's Helen."

A tremor passed through Greg's shoulders. "M'not checking her phone," he managed. His voice didn't sound like his own. "M'not a monster."

"Mm," Mycroft murmured, unmoved. "And yet she checks yours."

Carefully, he let Greg go. He studied Greg at arm's length for some time in the silence, his gaze soft, his expression serious. Greg could barely feel his own body any more. His thoughts felt cut loose inside his skull, unattached to anything, floating around within a useless shell.

"How different the rest of your life would be," Mycroft said at last, "if you could spend five minutes in my mind."

_ Christ. _

"That's the last thing I need," Greg said, staring into his eyes. "Seeing how pathetic I am. How fucked up."

"That is the very last impression you'd come away with," Mycroft said. He didn't move, his expression set in quiet distress as he looked at Greg. "I can't put into words how far from fucked up I consider you."

Greg swallowed.

"What would I see, then?" he asked. He searched Mycroft's face, his heart close to breaking. "Five minutes in your head. How would things be different?"

Mycroft primed something in his mouth. "I doubt you'd ever fear anything again," he murmured. He held Greg's gaze, half reassuring, half apologetic. "Least of all being alone and unloved."

_ Jesus—  _

_ God, I... _

In the ringing silence of Greg's heart, humour threw itself forwards.

"You'd lose yourself a patient then, wouldn't you?" he said.

Mycroft huffed, helpless. His smile sparkled through his eyes. 

"I have others," he said.

There came a silence in which they simply looked at each other, closer than they'd ever stood before. Greg became suddenly aware of how alone they were together, here in the dark on this quiet London street. They could be the only two people in the world.

He wanted to be hugged again; he didn't know how to ask.

"What was the thing I have to google?" he mumbled.

"The sunk cost fallacy," Mycroft said. He paused, watching Greg. "And also touch starvation. Good night, Greg."

_ Why does that always feel like 'goodbye'?  _ Greg couldn't bear to smile.

"Night," he murmured. "Thanks again, for..."

Mycroft stepped inside his building, glancing back at Greg on his doorstep. Their eyes met.

"Not at all," he said, and eased the door into place.

As it severed the contact of their eyes, the world grew dark and cold in an instant. Everything simply seemed to stop. There was only silence, the force of Mycroft's absence. It fell down on Greg like a curtain, cloaking everything, numbing him to the bone.

_ Alone again,  _ he thought.  _ Alone 'til Wednesday. _

He returned to his car without a sound, got in, and drove a single street away.

He then parked and opened up his phone.

*

The lights were on. Helen was home.

As the engine shut off, Greg gazed up at the brightly lit windows of his home and wondered what would happen if he simply drove away. He'd sometimes had similar thoughts when he was a teenager. He used to fantasise about slipping off one day after school and going missing, hoping to see his parents on the six o'clock news, crying because they were worried about him.

This time felt different, though. 

He didn't want somebody to cry and miss him. He wanted to be forgotten in an instant, all losses cut, all ties severed and done. He'd leave if he could be certain that Helen wouldn't pursue him somehow. He'd go if he could really, truly go.

He just wished he could believe she would shrug and not care.

_ "Listen,"  _ he imagined saying to her.  _ "You're not that bothered anymore, are you? Nah. Me neither. Alright, good. I'll head off then." _

He even knew the route he'd drive from here. It was the exact reverse of the one he'd just taken. He'd park up outside that door again, knock on it loud enough to be heard, then wait for it to be answered.  _ "Can we talk?"  _ he'd ask.  _ "I've got to tell you something. I... I think I..." _

There was always Lisa's sofa, if it all went wrong.

As Greg wearily unplugged his phone from the car, telling himself to try living in the real world for once, the front door of the house shunted open. Light swept across the path in an arc. Helen appeared within its frame, still dressed and looking furious, her mobile in her hand.

_ Christ,  _ Greg thought, drawing a breath. He pushed open the door.  _ Please don't. Not tonight. _

"And where the fuck have you been?" Helen demanded at volume, the second his head emerged from the car. "Do you even know what fucking time it is?"

"I was out," Greg said, already tired to the bone. He locked the car as he spoke. "What happened to Zumba? I thought you'd only be b—"

"What do you mean,  _ out?" _ Helen barked over him. Greg pushed his tongue into his cheek, hard. "Where've you been? Why weren't you answering your bloody phone? Is there any point in you actually having a phone if you don't even answer it when I ring you?"

Greg pocketed his keys, bracing himself. He proceeded slowly up the path.

"I was at therapy," he told her, calmly, quietly. "With Mycroft." Helen rolled her eyes so far back into her head they nearly vanished. "I told you last night I was having another session."

"You did  _ not,"  _ Helen snapped. "You said  _ nothing  _ about it. And you  _ definitely  _ didn't say you'd be rolling in this bloody late. Are you seriously telling me you've been at therapy all this time?"

"What does it matter?" Greg asked, frowning as he reached the end of the path. "You were at Zumba. I left cottage pie in the fridge for you, did you find it?" He stepped up towards the door; she didn't move. "Can I come in the house, please, Hel? It's freezing."

Helen blocked him with her hands. Leaning forwards, she sniffed hard at the side of his neck.

"What is  _ that?"  _ she demanded.

_ Christ, what...  _ "What's what?" Greg said.

"That's not  _ your _ deodorant," Helen snapped, her eyes wide. "Who is  _ that?" _

"Are you serious? Let me inside, Hel. It's probably just Mycroft."

"What the  _ fuck? _ Why have you got his deodorant on you?"

"I took him home," Greg said, with growing annoyance. "I gave him a lift. That's all." He made to step past Helen. She blocked him again. "Hel—what're you—" 

"You gave him a lift?" she demanded, staring at him. "Why?"

Greg shrugged, his heart starting to pound. "Being nice," he said. "Saving him the taxi fare. It only took ten minutes. He was at the clinic late because of me, it was only f—"

"And you expect me to believe this bollocks, do you?" Helen half-shouted. The neighbours would be able to hear every word soon. Greg could already see bedroom curtains twitching next door. "You think you can come strolling in, this late at night, and expect me to believe you were just—"

"What  _ else _ would I have been doing?" Greg burst over her, raising his voice. "What're you accusing me of?"

Helen's eyes flew wide.  _ "Excuse me— _ don't you dare interr—"

"Then let me in the bloody house, Helen! If you want to talk, let's talk inside, alright?"

"Oh, we're going to  _ talk!" _ Helen shouted. "We're going to talk right here, right now, about what a fucking  _ doormat _ you are, Greg Lestrade—you know that? Every other week, Lisa wanting her awful bloody kids babysat for free and you come r—"

"She's my  _ sister!" _ Greg raged, his hands tightening into fists. "For Christ's sake, Helen—those kids are my family, they're m—"

"—anything she wants," Helen screamed over him, "she just clicks her fingers and there you are! And now even your therapist's figured out you're a free taxi service, has he? You're a pushover, you'll do anything that anybody wants and it's  _ pathetic!" _

Something snapped. It snapped for good.

Greg's jaw locked solid. He looked her dead in the eye.

"You're right," he said. Helen stalled, taken aback. "I put up with a lot, don't I? A lot of shit from other people. Maybe I should do something about that."

Helen hesitated, staring at him, her features blanched white by the light above the door.

"Are you threatening me?" she demanded.

_ For fuck's sake.  _

"No," Greg said, stepping up into the house. "I'm just tired. We'll talk tomorrow." He slid past her. "Have you put the recycling out? Or is that still waiting for me to do? Looks like it's okay for me to be a pushover when it suits you."

"Did you just  _ shove  _ me!?"

"No," Greg called from the darkened kitchen, stooping to gather old milk bottles and cardboard boxes into his arms. "Why don't you ring all your friends and tell them I did, though? Something new for you all to talk about."

"Are you drunk?"

"If only."

"You're drunk, aren't you? Who the fuck have you been drinking with?"

"If I had someone to drink with," Greg said, scooping up an escaping tin of beans, "do you think I'd have bothered coming home?"

Helen stormed into the lounge, emerging a second later with her handbag over her arm. 

"I'm going to Charlotte's," she said. "I can't deal with you when you're like this. You're a fucking arsehole."

"Yeah?" Greg said, as she stormed towards the front door. "You mean when I'm being a doormat—or  _ not _ a doormat—or whatever else suits your story this time? Does it ever cross your mind that sometimes  _ I _ don't want to deal with  _ you?" _

Wrenching her coat down from the hatstand, Helen pulled it on.

"You're a bastard," she spat at him. "You know that? You're an abusive bastard and Scotland Yard would fire you in a  _ second _ if they heard you talking to me like this."

"Good!" Greg said. "Here's hoping they're listening. I could do with six months off. Say hello to Charlotte for me." 

Helen wrenched open the front door. _ "Bastard!" _

"Have you got some fresh knickers for the morning?" Greg called from the kitchen. "Or will your sister just lend you a pair? I suppose enough people have been in them already."

As Helen left, incandescent with rage, she slammed the door so hard it bounced open again off its hinges. Seconds later, the car went screaming off into the night.

Greg put the recycling out in silence, ignoring all the upstairs lights now on around the street.  _ Have a good look,  _ he thought.  _ Nosy tossers.  _ He spent a few minutes making sure that the boxes were properly sorted, the lids all clipped on.  _ I've got nothing to hide. _

He locked the door for the night and made himself tea.

_ Gonna pay for it,  _ he thought, stirring in sugar. It was strange to see his hands so steady. He'd thought they would be shaking.  _ Maybe I should've... for harmony's sake, just... _

The spoon slowed to a stop on its own. 

Tired, Greg let his eyes close.

_ No,  _ he thought.  _ No, damn it.  _

_ I want to shout too. _

He'd been given three diagnoses this evening: sunk cost fallacy, touch starvation. Doormat. 

Christ knew he couldn't do anything about his sunk costs—all the years he'd wasted. That was just marriage. You picked a cost and you sunk. He didn't need Mycroft to tell him he'd made a bad investment.

He couldn't do anything about the skin hunger, either. Two comforting hugs had broken his heart. His skin was so starving it wanted him to walk back to Mycroft's in the dark, right now, hang on the doorbell until dawn and then beg the man for just one more minute in his arms. He wanted to listen to Mycroft's heart, feel the rumble of his voice. No drug in the world could ever be that powerful. It was months since Greg had felt someone's voice in his skin, not just heard it in his ears. Even Mycroft's amused pat of his knee in the car had sent sparks tumbling through his soul.

But there was nothing Greg could do about that.

The cure for touch hunger was touch; nobody wanted to touch him. That was that. Crying and comforting himself in the shower would have to do. He couldn't magic someone out of the ether to hold him.

He could do something about being a doormat, though. 

_ Petty victory,  _ he thought, dropping his tea bag into the bin.  _ Still a fucking victory. _

He should have left when the baby was gone.

He should have told his parents they'd forgotten his birthday.

Greg breathed in, returning the milk to its shelf in the fridge. 

_ Can't scream into the past, mate,  _ he murmured in his mind.  _ Might as well just scream now. Hope the future hears you. _

*

Even after his shower, settling naked in the big double bed they'd once shared, Greg wasn't sorry. He kept glancing into the space in his heart where guilt usually appeared, waiting for it to start nudging him: text her, call her, buy her flowers tomorrow after work, make it right. But nothing seemed to be coming.

Stroking a hand through his own damp hair, Greg relaxed against the pillows and woke his mobile phone. All his apps, messages and pictures unfolded themselves for inspection with a single press.  _ Nothing to hide,  _ he thought.

His cheek twitched.

_ One rule for you, one rule for me. _

He navigated to settings, his heart thumping hard in the quiet. He set a code, 6924, then took a screenshot of his new lockscreen and sent it.

Fifteen minutes later, still shivering in his afterglow, he reached for his phone and scanned the text message waiting for him.

_ [MH - 23:38] Inordinately proud of you. x - M _

_ [GL - 23:51] I want a sticker next week xx _

_ [MH - 23:51] You shall have as many stickers as you like. x - M _

_ [GL - 23:52] You must be doing something right xx _ _   
_ _ [GL - 23:52] Reckon I'll be a new man by christmas? xx _

_ [MH - 23:53] I highly doubt that's necessary. x - M _ _   
_ _ [MH - 23:53] A slightly prouder version of the current one will do wonderfully. xx - M _


	16. Venus vs. Mars

**Wednesday 4th December**

"Where's your Christmas tree?" Greg asked, arriving into Mycroft's office with a grin. He'd looked forward to this moment all day. "It's December, Myc. Don't tell me you're a humbug."

Amused, Mycroft switched on the kettle.

"I'm attempting to maintain a professional aesthetic," he said as he reached for mugs. "Fairy lights tend to shift the contemplative mood somewhat."

"Bah. You can get some really classy Christmas trees these days. They'd fit right in with your aesthetic."

"Oh? And what do you recommend I type into Amazon?"

Greg handed over his jacket, his eyes bright. 

_"Posh Christmas tree,"_ he said, grinning as Mycroft smirked. "Maybe even _posh silver Christmas tree."_

Mycroft's eyes glittered behind his glasses.

"Very well," he said. "Tea or coffee?"

*

"How long did it take her to notice?"

Greg huffed. "About an hour after she got back from her sister's," he said. He took a long drink of coffee. "Surprised it took an hour, to be honest. Is it weird that I left it somewhere obvious for her to find? I didn't want her hunting through all my stuff."

Mycroft smiled, visibly choosing not to comment. 

"What was your reaction when she realised?" he asked, with his usual quiet interest.

Greg found himself a little surprised. He'd expected Mycroft to ask about Helen's reaction—which was in a single word volcanic—rather than his own. It took him a moment to remember what he'd actually felt.

"Kinda calm, really," he said. "Suppose I was ready for it. Told her it's for work, told her she's got a code on hers... that was it. Conversation over."

"Did she at least have the grace to explain herself?" Mycroft asked, resting his chin upon one hand.

Greg almost smiled. It was weirdly comforting, seeing a therapist so blatantly pick a side. It made him feel like this wasn't just a case of Mars versus Venus.

 _"'I needed to google something,'"_ he relayed, _"'and mine's charging'."_

Mycroft's left eyebrow lifted. "Mm."

"Dunno what she ever expects to find," Greg added. "Something to misread and get mad about." He looked up from his mug; he couldn't help it. "You don't like her. Do you?"

Mycroft drew a breath, leaning back a little in his chair. 

Before he could finish, Greg said,

"Don't do that." He smiled, enjoying the startled blink he'd caused. "Don't edit it for me," he explained. "Don't pick your words. It's fine if you don't."

Mycroft's mouth tugged upwards at the corner, helpless. 

"I'm locating you a precise response, Greg," he said. "Not formulating an untruthful one."

"Why am I not allowed the simple answer?" Greg asked, still smiling, and watched Mycroft's expression fill with unguarded fondness. "Why m'I getting a precise one? So you can hide something behind it?"

His honesty brought forth honesty in reply. "Because the simple answer is quite a thing to express to a man about his wife," Mycroft said.

"Yeah?" Greg held Mycroft's gaze, unafraid, his pulse slow and deep. "Even if the man asked you to express it?"

Mycroft took this onboard.

"No," he murmured at last, pressing his tongue into his cheek. Something unwound with relief in Greg's chest. "No, I do not like her. I wouldn't personally seek out a social connection with her. I find various aspects of her behaviour towards you deeply troubling, and it would be immoral of me to conceal that."

Greg lifted his mug to his mouth. "What aspects?" he asked, and took a drink. 

Mycroft inhaled again, gazing towards the window as he searched for the words.

"Quit cherry-picking," Greg said, smiling.

Mycroft's face crumpled with humour and despair. "I'm not cherry-picking," he said, looking back at Greg. "I'm wondering where in God's name to start."

Greg grinned, knowing he shouldn't find it funny. "The snooping through my phone seems to fuck you off," he suggested. "Start there. Give it to me, Myc. Tough love."

Mycroft swished his tongue around his teeth. "It illustrates a staggering lack of trust," he said, "in a man who has done nothing at all to merit suspicion. Helen is extremely lucky you have a tolerant nature. You'd be completely within your rights to feel insulted and violated."

Greg couldn't even imagine looking Helen in the face and telling her he felt insulted—demanding that she honour him like some kind of god. 

"Why's she do it?" he asked. "What's she getting out of it?"

Mycroft recrossed his legs, leaning sideways in his armchair. "I'd say your earlier suggestion holds a lot of water."

"Mm?"

"She hopes to find something she can misread and express anger over."

"But... why?" Greg said, baffled. "What's the point? Why would she _want_ to start arguments?"

Mycroft reached for his own cup of tea. 

"It's strange to say that emotional turmoil can be addictive," he said. "Unhappy circumstances tend to attract reassurance and attentive behaviour from loved ones. When we are hurt, when there is turmoil to relate, our people gather close to us. When we are fine, they go away again and leave us to our own devices."

The gears in Greg's mind ground against each other. "So... she does it so... so we can make up after?" he said. "Because we _don't_ make up. She just screams at me for days, I let her, then it kinda goes away."

Mycroft's mouth pulled at the corner.

"No, Greg," he said. "I'm suggesting she does it to secure the attention of her friends."

Eyebrows lifting, Greg held onto his mug of tea. "She's... doing this so she has something to tell them? Is that actually a thing?"

"For a certain kind of person, yes. If Helen has developed a pattern with her friends that only lurid tales of domestic strife are enough to keep them interested, then unhappy discoveries will become a prize. A token she can hand over and exchange for their attention."

"Christ," Greg mumbled. He hesitated, glancing up at Mycroft. "Her family's a bit like that, too. Never happy unless they're unhappy."

Mycroft nodded gently, listening.

Greg gripped his mug. "Sorry if this sounds tragic," he said. "I dunno how to phrase it so it's not."

"Go on," Mycroft said.

Greg took a breath. "Why am I boring to her?" he asked. "Why's my attention not enough?"

Mycroft didn't answer, holding something back in his mouth. He visibly started to shape it.

"Simple," Greg said, quietly. "Not precise."

Mycroft considered him for a moment, judging how much he could take. "Why are dead mice boring to cats?" he asked.

Greg's eyebrows lifted. "You're saying she's already had the guts out of me? I'm no fun anymore?"

Mycroft seemed to start regretting it. He exhaled, glancing down into his tea.

"Don't," Greg said, gently. "Don't backtrack now. Please. Please be honest."

Mycroft took a moment to process this, regarding Greg across the coffee table. 

"Honesty is best in measured doses," he said.

Greg's heart contracted. "They don't reset a broken bone bit by bit. You do it quick, all at once, or it'll hurt a million times more than it needs to. I want something to change."

Mycroft held his gaze.

"If you wanted me to play magician," he said, "and revive Helen's interest in you with a tap of my wand, regardless of whether it was the right course... I'd tell you to have an affair, Greg. I'd stake my career on it working."

Greg's mouth opened. He closed it, breathing out. "Holy shit," he mumbled. "Are you for real?"

"I'm sorry." Mycroft's gaze quietened, watching him with the greatest of care. "I believe she likes the chase. I believe it's in her nature."

Greg let it sink in. It made awful sense, more and more with every passing second. Memories unfolded one by one in his mind, arguments and fights and disasters that had seemed to put the light back into Helen's eyes. She hated happy gatherings at Lisa's house; she got bored when things were fine. 

"I think you're right," he said, filling the quiet that had gathered. He looked up into Mycroft's eyes again, unsure when it was he'd looked away. "Shame the chase is the part I hate."

Gentle distress tightened Mycroft's features. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm..." _Married to someone who gets bored being married._ "Food for thought, that's all. Stuff to think about."

"I'm sorry if that was too much," Mycroft murmured. He _looked_ sorry.

It was enough to soften the pain. As Greg looked into Mycroft's face, something seemed to swell inside his chest, some immediate and desperate urge to ease the nervousness he saw.

"Don't be," he said. "Genuinely, I mean it. I need this. Tough love."

Mycroft didn't seem convinced, holding something back.

"I need to hear it," Greg went on, almost shaking with relief. "I've waited months to hear this. I feel better knowing that you'll tell me things straight. You won't sugar them or fluff them or hide them. It's reassuring." 

He gripped his mug, begging Mycroft with his eyes to listen. 

"Makes me feel like I can trust you," he finished.

Mycroft didn't look away. He held onto Greg's gaze, still nervous but a little more soothed.

"Your interests will always come first in my mind," he said. "You deserve to be extremely happy, Greg."

_Christ. Not just happy. Not just fine._

Greg wasn't sure when he'd last have described himself as extremely happy. 

_An hour ago,_ he thought, _when I walked through that door._ His heart fluttered with immediate guilt, heat rising across the back of his neck. Noticing the sensation, he took a breath. _No. No, fuck it. If she doesn't care that I'm unhappy, it's not her business when I'm happy._

_And it's just company. Just nice to have someone._

"What are you thinking?" Mycroft asked, drawing Greg back to the surface.

Greg looked at him, lost for a moment in the simple, perfect sight: green-blue eyes, watching with care over reading glasses.

His throat gripped, squeezing back what he wanted to say.

"Don't ever get rid of me, will you?" He tried a smile, fragile as a flower stem. "I don't know what I'd do if you got rid of me."

"That would not be in your interests," Mycroft said, gently, "and so I will not."

It looked very much like a promise; Greg let it settle his fear.

After a moment's quiet, he said,

"I finished the new one you sent me."

Mycroft's eyes brightened. "Already?" he remarked, reaching out a hand for Greg's mug. "Dear lord. And what did you think?"

Greg smiled, handing it over. "I think I'm ready for the sequel, please. D'you have anything else where people have to share a bed?"

*

As their eyes met in the glass, Greg's heart gave a hopeful stir.

"Can I start this week?" he asked.

Mycroft's gaze warmed, visibly pleased. "Of course you may. What do you like about him?"

Greg didn't need the reminder of the rules. He'd looked forward to this game all day—felt guilty for looking forward to it, and silly, and a little like a child who'd been promised a special treat if he was good—but he'd looked forward to it all the same.

"I like his positive attitude," he said, glancing into his own face. He watched his reflection smile, his own eyes glittering and happy. "I like how it's... I don't know, I think it's visible. How he looks. I think you can tell he doesn't give up. He keeps on until he gets there."

"You're completely right," Mycroft murmured, gentle in the shadows just behind him. "It's one of the first things people see. And it makes him extremely likeable."

Greg bit down into his grin.

On second thought, he let it grow.

*

Though goodnight would always hurt, it seemed like a good hurt tonight. The urge to cling and to cry wasn't quite so sharp.

"Homework for next week," Mycroft said, smiling in the doorway, his fingers on the handle. "One list of ten things that you love. One list of ten things you'd like to do one day. A final list with each entry starting, _Honestly I think I..._ , filled in with whatever comes to mind, no matter how trivial or petty—ten times. I shall text you these instructions."

Greg grinned, pushing his hands nervously into his pockets. "Do I have to show you the lists?"

"Not at all," Mycroft said, "but if you'd like to share any thoughts that arise as a result, and discuss them with me, I'd love to hear."

"Alright." Smiling, Greg drew a quick breath. _I want to hug you. Just... one arm, just... that wouldn't be weird. Would it?_ "Have a good week, then," he said. "Don't forget to order your Christmas tree."

Mycroft's eyes flashed with delight. 

"Beast," he chided. Greg's heart began to thump like a wagging tail. "I shan't forget. Have an excellent week yourself. I'm a short text away, if you ever need me."

_God, if you knew. If you had any idea._

"Sure," Greg said, smiling. "I will. Thanks for tonight." His arm muscles flexed by themselves, his hands gathering shut in his pockets. _Want to hug you. Hold you. Just for a second._ "Bye," he murmured.

Mycroft's fingers wrapped around the handle. "Goodnight, Greg," he said, stepping back.

Greg turned to leave, not wanting to see it close. He inhaled as he moved away along the corridor, partially drowning out the gentle snap of the door. _It's not goodbye,_ he told himself, heading down the stairs. _It's just for now. Can't keep him to myself. Other people need him._

He got three texts on the way home: one with instructions for his homework, one with delivery of a new book, one with best wishes for the week. Greg replied while sitting in the car, parked up in the driveway, all the lights out in the house.

_[GL - 21:02] Thanks for tonight. Felt like a good session :) Have a great week. See you soon xx_

*

**Saturday 7th December**

"D'you fancy French or Italian for our anniversary?" Greg asked, keeping his eyes on the road. "I'm going to ring and book it this week."

Helen frowned, barely glancing up from her phone. "I don't care," she muttered.

"Both good, then?" said Greg.

"I didn't say both are _good,"_ Helen replied, her voice hard, "I said I didn't _care."_

"About going anywhere?"

"Of course I want to _go somewhere!_ It's our wedding anniversary."

"Yeah?" Greg signalled, pulling them off the main road towards the supermarket. "Pick then, babe. Tell me where and I'll book it."

"Why should I have to pick somewhere?" Helen demanded, as Greg quietly pressed his tongue into the hollow of his cheek. "Why can't you just choose somewhere, Greg? Why do we have to have all this fuss?"

"Because you like the fuss," Greg said, blandly. Her head jerked towards him in alarm. "Otherwise you'd have picked somewhere weeks ago." He aimed a flat smile at her, then returned his eyes to the road. "Let me know by tomorrow night, yeah? Or I'll assume you're not that bothered."

Helen stared at him in silence for some time, trying to work him out. Her fingers had finally fallen motionless on her phone.

At last, with a twitch of her mouth, she said, "Italian is fine."

 _Miracles never cease._ "Franco's or Sartoria?"

Helen's jaw worked. "Sartoria."

"Great," said Greg. "Sartoria it is. Should be fun. Lisa's invited us for lunch tomorrow, by the way. D'you want to come?"

"No," Helen said, returning her wary gaze to her phone. She began to type again. "I'm busy tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Greg said. "Anything I should know about?"

Helen shifted in her seat. "Seeing Charlotte," she said, crossing one leg over the other. It reminded Greg irresistibly of Mycroft. "Going for lunch."

"Well... we're having lunch at Lisa's. Charlotte's welcome to come along. I'm sure Lisa wouldn't mind."

"No," Helen said again, distracted. "No, thank you."

They drove in silence for the rest of the journey, parked at the front of the supermarket and retrieved all the bags from the boot.

"How's things going with Ananya?" Greg asked, wheeling the trolley through the entrance. "Is she looking after you?"

Helen's forehead furrowed. 

"It's fine," she said, as if suspicious of why he wanted to know. The silence stretched. "She gets a bit personal sometimes."

Greg decided not to smile, reaching for a bag of baby carrots. "She's a therapist, babe," he said. "S'what we're paying her to do."

Helen retrieved her phone from inside her jacket. 

"Mnh," she said, ignoring him. As he leant past her to reach the trolley, she unlocked her phone with a flash of her thumb.

Greg tried not to catch the pattern over her shoulder: a quick counter-clockwise L-shape, starting at 2. He tried to forget it immediately, telling his brain to bleach what they'd just seen. He didn't need to know it and he wasn't going to make use of it.

"Oi," he said, as Helen continued to text. She looked up from her phone. "Help or go home," Greg said, picking up a bag of potatoes. "I'm not your butler."

Helen's mouth dropped open.

"Shout if you want," Greg added with a shrug. "I don't care if you do. But if you're just going to text and snap at me, I'll come on my own next time."

Helen gaped at him for a moment, lost, still holding her phone.

"Does he actually encourage you to abuse me?" she then asked. "Your precious bloody Mycroft."

Greg rolled his eyes, pushing the trolley on along the aisle. "It's abuse asking you to put down your phone for twenty minutes and help?" he said.

"It's abuse treating me like I'm _shit_ on the bottom of your shoe, Greg Lestrade."

"Really? That's how I felt when you fucked someone else. Guess we're even now." Greg didn't look round; he didn't care how she'd reacted. He didn't want to know what it had caused her to feel. He reached for a large bottle of semi-skimmed milk, adding it to the trolley. "For what it's worth," he added over his shoulder, "it's also how I feel when I kiss you on the head and you grimace and call me a pervert."

"I—how can you—" Helen's voice sharpened, her brain kicking into life. "Just because I'm not constantly spreading m—"

"It's not though, Hel, is it?" Greg snapped over her. "It's not about that." 

He grabbed a pack of butter, threw it into the trolley and stared at her. _Holy shit,_ he thought. _We're doing this, aren't we? At last. Right here in the supermarket._

"It's never been about that," he went on, ignoring the concerned glance from a passing shopper. "It's about how I literally repulse you. You don't have a good word to say to me any more. Not one. You're sick of the sight of me. You don't want to talk to me or touch me or kiss me or be with me. So why the fuck are we married, Hel? What do you actually want me for?"

Helen flushed to her hair, gripping the strap of her handbag so hard that she'd started to shake.

"How dare you _humiliate_ me like this in public," she breathed. "Is this how you get your kicks now?"

"No," Greg said, exhausted. "I hate this. I've _always_ hated this. You know what would give me kicks?"

Helen said nothing, waiting.

"If I could walk around the supermarket with somebody in peace," Greg said. The honesty rushed from his throat, too close to the surface to keep down any longer. "Pick food together for the week and talk. Make plans for our anniversary like it's a date, not a dentist appointment. Hug and touch and care about each other. That's all I want in the whole bloody world."

Helen stared at him, still saying nothing, her knuckles white on her handbag strap.

 _You don't understand,_ Greg realised, aching. _It baffles you, doesn't it? Why anyone would want that. Why that would make me happy._

He looked away from her, closing his eyes for a moment.

"What's the point of me, Hel?" he said. "Why did you marry me? I need you to prove it's more than just my salary."

Helen inhaled, hard.

"I am your _wife,"_ she bristled, hissing across the trolley at him, "not a _prostitute._ I'm not going to _fuck you_ to earn my keep."

"When did I ever mention _that?"_ Greg said, appalled. "I'm not talking about _that._ I'm talking about why you can't even bring yourself to smile at me. Why you don't even want to hug me or watch telly with me or help me pick groceries. Because if that's all too much for me to expect, what's the point in us being together?"

Helen's jaw set.

"You're unbearable," she said, opening her handbag for her phone. "You're exhausting me. You're taking _years_ off my life, Greg. Now we can't even go to the supermarket without you picking a fight."

"Jesus Christ," Greg sighed. _"You_ picked the fight."

She turned away, storming off along the aisle as she typed into her phone.

"Helen," Greg called after her. His chest hardened. "Helen, I want something to change."

She did not look round.

*

_10 things I love._

_My sister, nieces + nephews (not really a "thing"...)_

_My team at work (they do a bloody good job)_

_My car_

_My band t shirts (Fourteen Explicit Moments etc)_

_All my vinyl (all of it)_

_Jess Glynne's stuff_

_Proper fish and chips_

_Hot baths_

_Reading_

_Having the place to myself_

_10 things I'd love to do some day._

_Get my vinyl down from the loft_

_Take Lisa and her kids on holiday somewhere nice (Spain etc)_

_Proper indian cookery course_

_See Jess Glynne live_

_Find a five-a-side team to join_

_Travel again, see more of Europe maybe_

_Parachuting/hang gliding etc_

_See nieces/nephews graduate_

_Visit Edinburgh_

_Sleep next to someone_

_Honestly I think I put up with too much._

_Honestly I think I did the right thing today and I'm not sorry._

_Honestly I think I deserve a bit more money at work._

_Honestly I think I need to travel again before I'm old._

_Honestly I think I would have been a rubbish dad. I wouldn't have been any better than my dad._

_Honestly I think I want to cancel Dorset._

_Honestly I think I should have gone to therapy years ago._

_Honestly I think I like it more when I'm alone here and she's gone._

_Honestly I think I don't want to beg someone to love me/treat me properly, I'd rather just be on my own._

_Honestly I think I_


	17. Young and Stupid

**Wednesday 11th December**

Greg settled his head further back into the cushion, drawing a breath to get comfortable. 

"We had a row in the supermarket," he said. "She's back from her sister's now. I got home last night to find her just there in the house again, like nothing's wrong."

"What was the topic of your argument?" Mycroft asked, settled in the armchair at Greg's side.

It took Greg a moment to dredge the memories from the depths. Work had been busy; the run-up to Christmas was rushing by. Each day seemed to just about get started, then the sun went down and it was over.

"Marriage," he mumbled. "What the point of it is. Why she keeps me around if I'm already dead."

"Did you reach any conclusions?"

"No, we... she just told me I'm unbearable and stormed off. That's it." Greg hesitated, shifting on the couch. "Is she getting on okay with the other therapist? I know you're probably not allowed to tell me."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything myself," Mycroft said. "Helen's sessions with Ananya are confidential. The only one who could discuss them freely is Helen."

Greg had thought as much. He smoothed his jumper down over his stomach, quiet for a second.

"She doesn't seem any different," he said. "Still doesn't want to talk. Not about anything."

"These things can often take time," Mycroft said. "Therapy rarely runs to a schedule. I can promise you that Ananya will be doing all she can."

Greg's cheek pulled. "I worry it's..." He sighed, blowing the thought away. "Nah."

"Mm? Go on."

"I don't know. I worry it's a money thing for Hel. She's not got any income. And I'm easy to live with, I guess. Bit of a doormat. Pay the bills, put food on the table."

"I'm very sorry to hear you refer to yourself that way," Mycroft said, regarding Greg closely over his glasses.

Greg returned him a pained look. "That's how she sees me though, isn't it?" he said. "That's the jist of me."

He sighed, shaking his head. 

"I asked her pretty straight," he muttered. "I said... look, what's the point of me? If you don't want to talk to me or hug me or spend time together, what are we actually doing? She didn't even try to answer. Didn't bother reassuring me. Just acted like I was being hysterical and ridiculous as usual, then off she went."

Greg found himself gazing across the office at Mycroft's curtains, trying to put the feeling into words.

"Seems like... we're not lovers," he said. "We're not friends. We're not parents, sticking it out for the sake of the kid. We're just..." He shrugged. "Y'know? Forever."

Weighed down by the silence, he pulled his eyes back to Mycroft.

"I know you said she's got things to work out," he said. "I know that'll take time. And I'm trying to be a decent husband, be patient with it all, but... I mean, she doesn't even seem to be upset. She seems to have things just how she wants them, if I'm honest. Meanwhile I'm lonely, and I'm frustrated, and I'm..."

Mycroft said nothing, still listening gently.

Greg laced his fingers on his stomach. 

"My sister says I'm not paying you enough," he murmured, glancing up. He tried a smile. "Saw her at the weekend."

Mycroft smiled, quietly pleased to hear it.

"I very much like the sound of this sister," he remarked. He reached forwards, brushing his hand gently over Greg's eyes to close them. "Does she know how much you're paying me?"

"No. She says whatever it is, it's not enough."

"Mm. Clearly an astute and intelligent lady."

Greg smiled again, relieved by the change of subject. He could feel the tension unwinding already in his chest. "What're we talking about today?" he asked. "I notice you've herded me onto the feelings couch."

 _"The feelings couch,"_ Mycroft tutted.

"What? What else d'you call this thing? The thing where people lie down on it and cry about their childhoods."

"Would you like to lie on the floor and cry about your childhood?" Mycroft asked, audibly smiling. "No? Then behave yourself, please. I thought we could figure out where this self-loathing over your same sex attraction sinks its roots."

Greg winced, supposing it had only been a matter of time.

"Probably my dad," he said. "Firm opinions about poofters. Then I joined the force, and... well, some people don't mince words."

He opened one eye.

"Listen," he said, looking up at Mycroft. "I... I don't know if I'm... this word or that word or... I don't want a badge or anything. I've not been anywhere near a bloke in years."

Mycroft lifted a gentle eyebrow. "And therefore your licence to practice has been revoked, mm?"

Greg gave him a smile; it felt weak on his mouth.

"I just don't know if I'm going to be comfortable with words," he said. "S'all. I never thought of myself as... I don't know, _queer_ or... I-I just like people. I don't get hung up on the packaging they come in. That's about it."

Mycroft's look of reassurance would never quite leave his memory.

"We can throw out any terms you dislike," Mycroft said. "We can throw out all terms, if you wish. They're rarely fit for purpose and often so nebulous they mean next to nothing. Now, what was that you attempted to slip past me about your father?"

A proper smile broke across Greg's face, helpless.

Mycroft returned it, amused, his eyes bright and gentle.

"Do _your_ parents know you're gay?" Greg asked him, quietly.

Mycroft huffed. "She's been informed," he said. "Multiple times. Still holding out hope for a Damascus moment, though. Her much-coveted grandchildren _will_ spring forth from either myself or Sherlock, no matter our opinions on the matter. Devout homosexuality must seem a trifling obstacle against the effort of coaxing Sherlock to reproduce."

Greg's expression cracked, fighting the need to laugh. "Optimist, your mum?" he said.

"That's one word for her. I think she sees my apathy towards the child-bearing sex as a petulant sort of protest against her."

"What's that like? Not being accepted, I mean, by family. Is it really crap?"

Mycroft thought about it for a while, brushing something from his knee.

"When a person's world view is unfathomable to me," he said, "and I simply cannot process how their mind functions, I take it as an excellent sign. It means I am not like them, nor will I ever be. And then I make my peace."

Greg smiled a little. _But it still hurts you,_ he thought, watching Mycroft adjust his cufflinks. He wished that he could change it somehow.

"Do you fear not being accepted by family?" Mycroft asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Greg drew a weary breath.

"M'not all that accepted anyway," he admitted. "Or... well, not _unaccepted,_ just... always an afterthought, you know? Being with some of them feels like taking an exam where I'm always gonna get a D, no matter what I write. My brothers all love Hel. Think she's funny."

He gazed up at Mycroft's cream-coloured lampshade for a moment, tracing its rim with his eyes.

"Lisa wouldn't give a monkey's if I ended up with a guy," he mumbled. "Wouldn't even blink."

"I think I like Lisa more and more with every minute," Mycroft remarked. He brushed his hand over Greg's eyes again. "You're guaranteed an A on her examination, mm?"

Greg smiled a little, letting his eyes drift shut.

"No matter how bad I fuck up," he said. "There's not even an exam, y'know? I just arrive on her doorstep and it's fine. Feels like... like proper family."

"Excellent," Mycroft murmured. His voice was as warm as Greg had ever heard it. "I'm truly pleased to hear that."

"Don't know what I'd do without her, to be honest." Greg inhaled, resting his hands upon his stomach. "She always just... whenever I had a boyfriend, it was no different to when I had a girlfriend. Treated them just the same. She makes me feel like I'm normal."

He smiled, aware of Mycroft's gaze resting on his face.

"Like you do," he said. "When m'lying here, I can shrug and say yeah, there were men. And if I was ever single again, sure, maybe there'd be a guy. It'd be nice. I really miss it sometimes. And it doesn't feel like a big thing to say to you or to Lisa. It's just... the rest of the world, y'know?"

The quiet hugged him gently, inviting him to go on.

"Hel would lose her fucking mind if she knew I'd slept with men," he murmured. "She'd be booked straight in for AIDs tests."

He tried not to smile.

"Maybe that's my way out," he said. "Really casually mention an ex-boyfriend. Drop something in that Tom once said. I'm meant to be taking her out for our anniversary this weekend. That'd be a hell of a show for the other diners."

"Tom?" Mycroft enquired, lightly.

Greg huffed. _Should've known you'd catch on that bit,_ he thought.

"Together for a while in our twenties," he said. "We went travelling. My family thought we were just good mates. Lisa knew. No one else, though." 

He sighed, tangling his fingers together on his stomach.

"I was fine with keeping it quiet," he said. "I felt kinda safe that way. Nobody could give us grief, y'know? Tom wanted to be open. Then I applied for the police, and I think he decided... I don't know. We had a massive row and he told me I was ashamed of him. Tried to tell him that I wasn't, I just didn't want the world knowing our business, but that was it."

The quiet in the room seemed suddenly too big. Greg shifted, uneasy, wishing he could see Mycroft.

"We were young," he concluded. "Young and stupid."

"Do you have regrets?" Mycroft asked.

"Y-yeah. A few, if I'm honest."

"What do you regret the most?"

Greg wasn't completely sure. It took him a minute to know what to say. 

"Didn't really realise he was breaking up with me," he said. "I thought he was just upset and we'd talk again in a few weeks, figure it out. It didn't cross my mind we'd stop being together. I... wish I'd understood it was the end of the line."

"Why?" Mycroft asked, quietly. "If you'd understood, would you have made a different choice?"

_Christ._

The silent surge of distress took Greg's breath for a moment. He swallowed it back, knitting his fingers together more tightly.

"Sure," he said, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"What would you have done?"

 _Changed,_ Greg thought. _Had some courage. Showed him I was proud of him._

"I don't know," Greg managed, rubbing the inside of his wrist. He waited until the heat behind his eyes had subsided. "Suppose I... I lost him for it, so then I had to make the decision seem worth it. Police. Had to back it up and stick to it. No more messing around with other blokes." His throat tightened. "Sink some more of my costs."

"Was he your last boyfriend?"

"Y-yeah. Couple of nervous one night stands, but..."

"I get the feeling you didn't see that relationship as 'messing around'. It sounds as if it might have been love."

 _You've no idea._ Greg shrugged, biting hard into his cheek. 

"S'over," he mumbled. "Thirteen years ago."

"What did you like about being with him?" Mycroft said.

Greg drowned at once in an ocean of memory, all rushing to be first into his mouth. _Watching him wake up. Watching him fall asleep. His eyes, his laugh. The way he used to reach for me. Always planning things together, always talking about the future, like it'd never end._

"It was easy," Greg whispered at last. His throat closed; it took a while to speak. "Days turned into years, y'know? Just easy."

"Do you remember sex with him?" Mycroft asked.

"C-Christ. I, erm..." Greg gripped his own wrist, flushing. "I remember there was a lot of it. We were young."

"Were you happy with that part of your relationship?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I... I was lucky." The silence stretched. Nervous, suddenly wanting to share, Greg filled it. "We weren't... I don't know, _adventurous._ We weren't working our way through the kama sutra or anything. It was just... y'know, every chance we got... wake up on a morning, settle close. Look after each other."

He inhaled, remembering, his pulse slow and soft.

"We'd have sex just for fun," he murmured. "Sex 'cause we were bored. When we had no money to do anything, we'd cuddle and have sex instead. I liked having his hands in my hair. Liked listening to him come. Sometimes he'd just look at me across a room, and I'd... that was all it took..."

"Where are you going for dinner with Helen?" Mycroft asked.

It felt like being dropped from the sky.

Greg's eyes snapped open. He stared up from the couch at Mycroft, shocked, his mouth opening as all the breath expelled itself from his lungs.

"Fuck," he gasped, searching Mycroft's face. _"Fuck._ I like men."

Mycroft made no comment, watching Greg gently over his glasses, letting him speak.

"Why the fuck am I... h-holy shit," Greg whispered. He reached up to rake a hand into the front of his hair. "Holy shit, I married a woman. I married _Helen._ She cheated on me and I married her. Oh, _Jesus."_

Mycroft shifted his chair gently closer to the couch.

"It's alright," he said, placing his hand on Greg's arm. Greg reached up at once to put his own hand on top, hold Mycroft there. It felt like the only connection he had left to the world. "I'm sorry to have brought you to that so brutally," Mycroft said, "but it's all alright. Nothing necessarily needs to change."

Greg's head whirled. _But—but what if I want—_

"We'll keep on discussing this in our sessions," Mycroft murmured, slowly rubbing the top of Greg's arm. "You might retreat from and return to these thoughts in several cycles. It's very normal to do so."

Greg stared at him, lost, trying to make sense of the thoughts now thundering through his head.

"I don't want to go home," he blurted out. His stomach clenched, shocked to hear it in his own voice. "God, I... sorry, I'm just... I-I think I've fucked up. I have to go out for dinner with her on Sunday. She treats me like shit. I don't want to."

Mycroft listened, his gaze calm.

"I can't afford a divorce," Greg breathed. His heart contracted hard enough to make him feel sick. "S-Shit. We're in debt already. She'd ruin me. She'd do it just to teach me a lesson. You don't understand what a fucking nightmare that would be. And—h-how would I—what would I even tell her, what would I say to—"

"You won't need to say a thing today," Mycroft murmured, his voice perfectly soft, "nor for several weeks or months." He waited until Greg's eyes had flashed nervously back towards his face. "Greg, this office exists outside the normal flow of your life. It's a space for you to step into, open up your thoughts and examine them in peace and safety, without any need to act on them."

As he rubbed Greg's arm, slowly up and slowly down, Greg tried to match his breathing to the rhythm.

"For now," Mycroft went on, quietly, "these are simply thoughts. The only other person who has seen them is me. When our session ends, we can box them up safely and store them for next time. There is no deadline. No emergency."

Filling his lungs on each breath, emptying them in their entirety, Greg pulled the words inside his soul. He held onto them, tight, but didn't know if they made any difference. He wanted to lean against Mycroft. He wanted to curl into him and be cuddled like a pet, promised with more than just words he'd be alright. The distress was almost dizzying; he couldn't bear to meet Mycroft's gaze.

Mycroft watched him closely, listening to all the things he wasn't saying.

"Nothing will change today, Greg." At the grip of Greg's fingers, shaking, he resumed the gentle rubbing. "Nothing in your life will change," he murmured, "unless you choose to make it change. You are perfectly safe."

 _I'm not._ Greg shut his eyes, hanging his head as the misery roiled up inside his throat. _I'm not safe. I'm not happy. I'm not okay._

For long minutes Mycroft simply watched over him, rubbing his arm and bearing witness to his silence. He let Greg cry; he produced a tissue. When it was too damp to keep on using, he gently took it away.

"M'sorry," Greg mumbled, pressing the new one Mycroft gave him to his eyes. "S-sorry I keep drenching you in... think I'm digging up some stuff I thought I buried."

"There's no need to apologise," Mycroft murmured. "I'm here to help you to excavate. And I'm here to help you process what comes up, piece by piece, week by week, at a pace which feels within your control."

 _How the fuck did I ever cope without you?_ Greg almost said it aloud. He couldn't understand how he'd held his life together on his own, limped along with it so broken all this way. 

He took a deep breath, wiping away the last of his tears with the tissue, then crumpled it up inside his hand.

"Feel a bit trapped," he admitted. A little more anxiety left him in a rush of breath. "Trapped by... by my own stupid mistakes. Trying to do the right thing. Ended up like this."

"Few decisions in life are irreversible," Mycroft said. "Traps can be dismantled. Especially with assistance from outside them."

Greg almost laughed; the humour was black, bitter in the back of his throat. "I've wasted years," he breathed. "I've... I've sleepwalked my life into..."

"Perhaps," Mycroft murmured. Greg looked up at him, startled; only care and concern came back from Mycroft's eyes. "But there's every chance you'll look back on this time, on these days in which you're living now, and thank yourself for rescuing some years."

Mycroft's hand eased down Greg's arm, leaving him at the elbow. 

The quiet loss of contact made Greg ache.

"Try to look upon your past actions with kindness," Mycroft said, watching him with perfect calm. "You were brave and you were good, Greg. You made your decisions based on all the information you had at your disposal, and you made them with the best of intentions."

He smiled gently, his blue eyes bright and reassuring.

"Don't condemn the man you were," he said. "Embrace the man you are. Let him tell you what he needs."

Greg's heart strained.

He glanced towards the clock between the bookshelves, nervously sliding his hands between his jeans and the sofa. 

"Do we have... time for another drink, maybe?" he asked. As he looked back at Mycroft, his stomach seemed to flutter. "I, erm... I feel kinda spaced. Bit anxious. Would you help pull me back to earth?"

"Of course I can," Mycroft murmured, easing up from the couch. "And of course we have time. Let me refill the kettle."


	18. More Than Enough

It felt like Greg had never really seen himself before. All the familiar components of his reflection were there, along with the clothes he'd put on after work, but tonight there seemed something new about it all. Something had changed. Suddenly he was more than the sum of his parts, and as he looked at himself in the mirror, Greg struggled to recognise the man he saw standing there.

The man surveyed Greg in turn with wariness and doubt. His hands sought the quiet shelter of his pockets, his shoulders a little too square, his back a little too straight.

Mycroft's voice seemed to come from inside Greg's mind.

"Tell me about him, Greg," he said.

Greg pulled at the corner of his lip; the man in the mirror copied.

"I don't really know," Greg said, quietly. "I... I dunno what there is to see." The silence gathered. He drew a breath to dispel it, still trying to find some place where it felt safe to rest his gaze. "Feel like I let him down."

"Mm." In the mirror, Mycroft laid a hand on the back of Ananya's desk chair, turning it slowly so he could sit. "If he'd made the choices that you made, for the reasons that you had, would you hold it against him?"

Greg's forehead furrowed. "I...  _ did  _ make those choices," he said. "I  _ am _ him."

"You're not, Greg. He's someone else. He's a stranger, a man you've now encountered in your journey through life. Like many of us, he's made decisions he's now beginning to regret. Circumstances changed around him. New facts have come to light. Though he acted to the best of his ability, he now finds himself standing before you, asking if you plan to hold him accountable for what's past."

Greg gazed back into the round brown eyes in the mirror, aching, watching the stranger's expression soften.

"Would you grant him a blank slate, if he asked you?"

Greg nodded shakily, tightening his hands in his pockets.

"Tell him, Greg. Let yourself reassure him. Your opinion means a great deal and he's nervous."

Greg's throat contracted. He swallowed it open, drawing a breath. 

"It's alright," he mumbled, gazing into the glass. "It's... y-you didn't know. You can't have known how it'd turn out." 

His reflection hesitated, struggling to trust. 

"You didn't know they'd leave," Greg said, half-whispered. "You didn't realise she'd... i-it's fine. You weren't to know. And it'll be alright. I'll sort us out."

His chest ached.

"Somehow," he said, inhaling. "I'll... we'll manage. We'll figure it out."

"What do you like about him, Greg?" Mycroft murmured.

Greg looked into his own eyes, telling himself they were someone else's—some tired, broken bloke who'd done his best. He might be knackered and turning more grey by the day, but he'd tried. He'd never hurt anyone. All he wanted in life was someone who missed him when he wasn't there, curled up with him safe and sound in the night, stroked his skin, promised him they were his.

As his eyes glossed over, strange humour sparkled from the depths. It made him smile, huffing, reaching up to wipe his eyes.

"What was that?" Mycroft asked, intrigued.

Greg almost didn't know if he should say.  _ Then,  _ he thought with a breath,  _ you already know I'm a mess.  _

It felt good, relenting into honesty.

"I'd fuck me," he murmured. "I'd give the poor bastard the time of day."

Mycroft smiled at once, apparently delighted to hear it. "Your type?" he quipped.

"Hhm. Don't know if I ever had a type." Greg eyed himself in the glass, quietly shaking his head. "Can't be all that bad though, can he? Seems all present and correct. And he'd make the most of the opportunity, that's for sure."

He lifted his gaze in the mirror to Mycroft.

"Am I a freak?" he asked. "Saying that?"

"It's actually something of a blessing," Mycroft's reflection said, regarding him with quiet pride. "The ability to be attracted to one's own body, in a very real sense.  _ Love thyself as thy neighbour." _

"Is it a gay thing?" Greg asked. "Would  _ you _ fuck yourself?"

Mycroft thought about it briefly, eyebrows lifting as he drew a breath.

"Given the longevity of the current drought," he said, leaning back in Ananya's chair, "I'd be idiotic to decline. Though I'll confess I'm not at all my usual type."

"Yeah?" Greg curled his fingers in his pockets. "What d'you usually go for?"

Mycroft dropped his gaze, half-amused. "When I come to you for therapy, Greg, I'll tell you all about it." He eased himself up from the chair, turning it back the way he'd found it. "For now," he said, "let's continue to talk about you."

He came over to join Greg at the mirror, gently squaring his shoulders to face the glass. Greg returned his gaze to his own eyes.

"Admiring oneself," Mycroft said, stepping quietly to one side, "is no sin. Appreciating oneself is no sin. Believing that one has attractive and worthy qualities is no sin."

Greg exhaled, trying his best to believe it. It might have been a little easier five years ago.

"At what times would you say you feel best about yourself?" Mycroft asked.

_ Doing this. Here, with you.  _ Greg pushed the answer inside, searching for something else he could say. As he started to grow aware of the silence, he shifted in discomfort.

"Honestly, it's..."  _ Christ, here we go.  _ "Not often these days. It's, erm... it's hard, telling yourself you've got anything to offer when half the time you just feel like... y'know, a bit of a waste."

"A dedicated police officer," Mycroft murmured. "A much loved brother. A much loved uncle."

Greg's heart twisted, curling tight. 

"I'd suggest," Mycroft went on, his voice soft and quiet at Greg's shoulder, "that there is only one person in your life who considers you inadequate in any way."

That word,  _ inadequate, _ rasped beneath Greg's skin like a burn. He bit back the rush of distress it caused, still looking into his own eyes, telling himself to keep it together.

"Shame I'm married to that one," he managed. He wished he could make it sound like a joke. His throat muscles gripped, trying to stop the words. "Felt like crap, ever since she..."

_ Fuck.  _ Greg shut up at once, stiffening, looking down from the glass.

"Go on," Mycroft said, somewhere outside Greg's closed eyes, his voice so gentle it hurt. "You're safe."

The pain was all still there. Greg carried it with him like a fire kept inside a glass jar, ever flickering, stone-cold from the outside. He could drag it around for weeks without thinking. Now and then he'd nudge the lid aside, just to see if it was still as hot as he remembered, if it truly hurt like it had. Its heat came raging forth to consume him.

It took him almost a minute to speak, boiling alive with shame. 

"You should've seen the... the kid she..." Greg swallowed, struggling to breathe. Mycroft's hand laid in silence on his shoulder. "Half my age," Greg bit out. "B-Basically a fucking student. He met her in the pub. Some smirking kid, bragging to anyone who'd listen that he'd been bagged by a cougar. Fucking an older woman for a laugh."

He inhaled, breaking open with the force of the guilt.

"Still can't believe I hit him," he said. "I just... J-Jesus, I just needed to stop him laughing. I left him on the floor of the pub."

Mycroft's hand, rubbing slowly, eased Greg back to the present. He let the memories go with a nauseous shiver, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Nearly broke his jaw," he mumbled. "Didn't make me feel any better. I got in my car and drove off. Just followed any road, not looking at the signs."

"Where did you finally stop?" Mycroft asked.

Greg almost wanted to laugh. "Somewhere in the middle of fucking Norfolk," he said. "Sitting by the side of the road, crying. Knuckles still covered in blood. Lisa called me. Helen had rung her in hysterics, told her what had happened. Said she thought I'd gone to kill myself."

"Had you?" Mycroft murmured, the words as gentle as words of love.

Greg breathed out, letting go. 

"No," he said. It was the truth. "Just wanted to go somewhere alone. Somewhere I'd never been. Just sit somewhere and cry where no one knew me. Then, I..."

_ God. Fuck. _

"I don't know," he whispered, as his shoulders began to shake. "Didn't know what I was any more. Weeks going by. Woke up, drove to work, drove home and went to sleep. Then Helen turned up at Lisa's, crying, and told me she was pregnant."

He shook his head, numb.

"I didn't care about DNA," he said. "I still don't. Failed at being a boyfriend. Thought at least I could be a loving dad. Someone in this world would need me. Someone could be mine."

"You did not fail," Mycroft breathed.

"Y-yeah?" Greg stared at Mycroft's reflection in the mirror, his own eyes red and weary with crying. "Then why was I not enough? Why'd she need someone else?"

Mycroft's face worked, fighting something back.

"Don't," Greg whispered, gazing at him. "Don't swallow it. Whatever that is, it's mine and I've got a right to hear it."

Mycroft's jaw set. He forced himself to speak. 

"There are legions of people who would be honoured by your care," he said. Greg's heart seemed to detonate. "I am truly, desperately sorry you have fallen into the least deserving pair of hands on this planet."

_ Holy shit.  _

Greg turned around from the mirror to search Mycroft's face, wondering if he'd actually just heard all that. 

Mycroft looked back at him, pale but unafraid.

"Helen humiliated you because she is a fundamentally selfish human being," he said. Greg's mouth dropped open. "And yes, that is my official diagnosis."

"Are you for real?" Greg said, staring. "You only spoke to her for twenty minutes."

"It was more than enough," Mycroft replied.

_ Holy fuck.  _ "Are you... a-are you just saying this to—"

"No," Mycroft said, fiercely.  _ "Not _ to comfort you. Not to coddle you. From our first very first session, I was baffled as to how any spouse could find you wanting. I've only grown more baffled since. There is  _ nothing  _ inadequate about you. The only thing that needs to change is your estimate of what you deserve."

Greg's heart strained. He wanted to believe it. He'd never wanted to believe something so much in all his life. He stared at Mycroft, shaking, suddenly in tears again.

Mycroft gazed back into his eyes, his expression fraught with distress.

"Greg," he said. "Greg, I... if being held would bring you comfort—"

Unbreathing, Greg stepped forwards.

_ Should have hesitated,  _ he thought, burrowing into Mycroft's arms. Protective fingers raked at once through his hair.  _ Should at least have pretended to think.  _ Mycroft gathered him close, tucking him safe against one shoulder as shudders of distress and joy rippled through Greg's veins. He shut his eyes tightly, his pulse drowning out all sound within the room. The lump in his throat was on the verge of rupture.

Mycroft began to hush him, swaying him with care from side to side. 

Greg tightened his hands in the back of Mycroft's jacket.

"I-Is this okay?" he managed as he swallowed, a breath away from sobbing.  _ Don't let me go. Please don't. Not now.  _ "Are we... are we allowed to..." 

Mycroft's voice rumbled through his chest.

"It's... inadvisable," he confessed. He didn't let go. "Some of my colleagues would consider it very dangerous."

Greg almost didn't dare to ask. "W-Why would I be in danger?"

Mycroft huffed. He filled his lungs in silence, resigning himself to something. 

"Dangerous for me," he clarified.

Greg's heart seemed to ache, overwhelmed by the thought. "Why?" he said, barely making sound.

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He simply brushed the hair on the back of Greg's neck for a while, slowly smoothing it flat.

"It makes me vulnerable to certain accusations," he said at last. "I could be accused of having intentions that I don't."

Greg's head whirled.  _ People might think we're... _

"Greg, I... I should make clear that..." Mycroft hesitated, curling his fingers in the back of Greg's hair. "That you're safe with me. That your welfare is everything to me. I never want you to fear that I'm..."

_ God.  _

"I don't want to get you in trouble," Greg said. His voice broke. "I-I couldn't bear that."

Mycroft took another moment to speak. 

"We'd only invite trouble if there were suggestions of reciprocated intimacy between us," he said. "So long as we're both content that isn't happening, then..."

_ But what if I...  _

_ What if I want—  _

It stung. It spread, aching. It felt like fire catching suddenly on the front wall of Greg's chest, tongues of flame licking up into his throat and scorching it dry. He turned his face against Mycroft's neck as something broke, broke for good, and the force of it burned him alive in an instant.

_ What if I want to love you?  _ he thought, reeling. It felt like dying while remaining on his feet, fully present, fully conscious. Though he died, nothing ended. It all just kept on whirling, rushing, shining.  _ What if I want you to love me too?  _

He imagined lifting his head right now, brushing his cheek over Mycroft's jaw and kissing him, clinging to him. He could still feel Mycroft's arms wrapped around him, Mycroft's fingers in his hair. They were loving. They were warm. 

In an instant, they made everything alright.

_ What if I want to be yours?  _ Greg thought. His throat seized up; he couldn't breathe.  _ What if I want to burn the world and be with you? _

"Greg?" Mycroft murmured in his ear, and Greg realised he'd been standing here in silence, holding onto Mycroft like a priest had just pronounced them. He felt newborn. He wasn't real anymore.

He swallowed, taking his last ever breath, and looked up into Mycroft's eyes.

_ M'in love with you,  _ he thought. Mycroft's eyes were beautiful, slender rims of silver around pupils soft and dark.  _ Didn't stand a chance. _

"M'alright," he said, forcing himself to smile.  _ Christ, I'd do anything. All of it. Drive off with you right now.  _ "Sorry, I'm just... i-it's been a big session. Lots of... lots to think about."

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked, ever quiet.

_ God. _

"Nothing," Greg said. He exhaled, shaking, and told himself it was true.  _ If I'm gonna fall for someone, at least... at least you'll be here. You won't go. You won't leave me _ . "I-I'm alright, Myc. Promise. Probably just need a good cry."

Mycroft paused. His arms then gently loosened around Greg. As he took a step back, he seemed pale, his pupils huge in the darkness—but as he spoke, his voice was calm.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt about Helen," he said.

The sound of her name felt like being stabbed in the stomach. Greg looked away with a shiver, waves of cold spreading miserably across his shoulders.

"No," he said. He tried to pull himself together, breathing out. "No, it's... don't be sorry. I want blunt. I don't want it any other way."

"I don't wish to hurt you," Mycroft murmured.

Greg's chest clenched. "You can't," he said, looking up into Mycroft's face.  _ Holy shit, I want you. I want to be with you.  _ "Honest to god, I... I don't even know what that is with Helen anymore. There's nothing there. I don't know what to do."

"Do you know what you  _ want  _ to do?" Mycroft asked.

_ Jesus. Don't.  _ Greg laughed before he could stop himself, terrified. 

"No," he mumbled, shaking, and reached up to rub the side of his neck. "No, I don't have a clue."

"Would some time to think be helpful?" Mycroft said.

For the very first time, the thought of goodnight brought relief. Greg closed his eyes, breathing in, and told himself he'd feel different in the morning. He'd not slept properly last night. It was dark in here, intimate and quiet, and it was easy to feel in love in the dark. 

The morning light, his desk and his office, would shock some sense back into him.

"Sure," he said, nervously, stealing a last glance into Mycroft's eyes.  _ Holy fuck, you're everything.  _ "Yeah, m-maybe if we call it a night. I'll have a think before next session, then... yeah."

*

They said goodbye at the door.

"Contact me if you need me," Mycroft said, watching Greg as if unsure whether to let him drive home, one hand resting on the door. "If I'm with a client, there might be a short delay in getting back to you. But I will get back to you."

"S-sure," Greg said. "Thanks." 

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat, trying to remember how ordinary people said goodbye to someone they weren't in love with. His smile felt as flimsy and unconvincing as a painted cardboard wall. 

"Erm—have a good week," he said. "I guess next session'll be... wow, last before Christmas."

"Yes. We, ah... we can discuss arrangements for Christmas. The twenty-fifth and the first will both fall on a Wednesday. But we'll discuss next week," Mycroft added, seeing the look on Greg's face. "And I have a system of phone appointments over the holidays for those who need them urgently."

_ Am I urgent? Just wanting to hear your voice?  _

_ Or am I really not gonna see you for three weeks? _

"No worries," Greg's mouth said for him, switching into auto-pilot as yet another cavern of his soul collapsed into rubble without a sound. "Yeah, we'll... we'll figure something out."

_ Christ. I can't do this. _

"Thanks for tonight," he said, turning away. "Bye."

Halfway along the corridor, he heard Mycroft speak behind him.

"Goodnight, Greg."

_ Watching me go.  _

Greg's crippled heart told him at once that it hadn't been a statement. It was a question. It had sounded like  _ wait, Greg.  _

His brain then kicked in, seized him by the scruff of the neck and kept him walking. 

_ Fucking idiot,  _ it snarled.  _ He has fifty stupid people fall in love with him every year. Thinking like you're special. Like you'll do anything but embarrass yourself. Get the fuck out of here. _

He wanted to call goodnight in return, but he couldn't trust what noise would come out of his mouth. At least he wouldn't end up regretting silence.

Without a sound he headed for the stairs.

*

Ananya hummed as she retrieved her open bottle of Oyster Bay from the fridge. She'd almost arranged company for this evening, but in the end she'd opted for  _ Luther  _ and a pedicure. It had been an excellent decision. Idris Elba never failed to satisfy. With the bath upstairs now running, and her phone switched on silent to charge, the evening was drifting quietly to its end.

She selected one of the larger glasses from her cupboard, unscrewed the bottle, and had poured out an inch when the doorbell sounded through the house. Ananya paused, listening. The chime faded out into silence.

A moment later, it rang again.

Ananya drew a breath. She retrieved a second glass from the cupboard, filled both, then left the bottle on the counter as she strolled towards the front door.

He looked as if he might even have walked here. His hair was damp and dishevelled, though it had finished raining nearly an hour ago. The raggedness to his breath suggested he'd run the last two streets. As Ananya opened the door, he turned towards the light of her hallway in desperation and it bleached him white as snow. His expression was wracked with despair, more wretched than she'd ever seen him.

Ananya raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak. Mycroft didn't say a word. He simply gazed in at her, broken, wavering on the visible verge of tears.

Quietly she held open her door. 

As he stepped over the threshold, shaking, she placed a hand upon his back and guided him in.


	19. Stage

**Sunday 15th December**

They'd had an early date at Sartoria. 

It was the sort of thing Greg might have pointed out once, walking in together and waiting by the podium for their table. He'd have filled the heavy silence with memories of better times, as if all she really needed was a reminder, a gentle nudge to recall that she loved him, and it would be so.

But he'd barely slept at all for four nights now, they'd had another blazing row over breakfast, and he didn't really want to remember.

Helen stepped forwards to the maître d', brushing her hair over her shoulder.

"Mr and Mrs Lestrade," she murmured to him, her diamond drop earrings winking in the candlelight. She'd made some sort of effort—baby pink dress and a wrap with white fake fur around the edge. Greg had been startled enough to grunt on first sight of her. Two months ago, he'd never have believed it. He'd felt obliged to put on a proper shirt and a tie, and the thing was strangling him quietly with every step.

The maître d' nodded at once, charmed by Helen's soft-eyed smile, and gladly led the way to their table. Greg followed them both like a ghost, hardly present. He was already counting down the minutes until they could leave.

A waitress appeared, gave them menus and ran through a list of specials Greg forgot within an instant. He busied himself at once with the menu, relieved to have somewhere to put his eyes. Helen ordered them a bottle of house red and the waitress left, leaving them to decide on their meals.

Skimming his eyes down the menu, Greg's gaze snagged on the tiny green leaf symbol scattered throughout the options.

_ Vegetarian,  _ he thought.  _ You'd pick those.  _ It hurt like hell; he didn't even know why. He shifted and inhaled, trying to make it look like he was just contemplating the antipasti.  _ Like I'll ever sit in a restaurant with you. Like we'll have anniversaries. _

"What do you think?" a voice asked, a million miles away. Something brushed Greg's ankle under the table. "Starters, too?"

Greg stirred, quietly annoyed, and drew his feet back out of her way. Why she had to take up so much room he didn't know.

"Sure," he said.  _ Yeah, let's draw this out as long as possible. Let's spend money you know we don't have.  _ "Whatever you want," he added, keeping his eyes on the menu.

Helen seemed to pause, watching him across the table. 

"Can't remember when we were last here," she said. In his peripheral vision, Greg saw her rest her chin on one hand and gaze around the restaurant. "We should come out more often," she murmured. "Go to a bar or something, like we used to."

Greg pushed his tongue across his teeth. 

"Invited you to come to Sunday lunch at Lisa's last week, and you didn't want to. Been trying to get an answer out of you about where to go tonight since October." He flipped over the menu, surveying the list of spirits they sold. "You still haven't decided on Dorset, either."

Helen was silent for a second, watching him ignore her. 

_ Shout,  _ Greg thought with longing.  _ Kick off. Go on. Do it now, before we've ordered anything. Give me a reason to walk out of here. _

"Did you keep the booking?" Helen asked, suspiciously calm.

"Yep," said Greg. "Meant to be driving down Friday night."

He scanned through the list of secondi, bracing himself for whatever comment was about to come, whatever snide little remark she was about to serve him. 

"We'd best start packing then," she said, mildly, and brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

Surprised enough to risk eye contact, Greg glanced up from the menu. Helen was reading her own, idling over the antipasti selection as if nothing was wrong in the world. She wasn't preparing anything in her mouth; her face hadn't developed the hard lines that said she was angry, loading both barrels for him. She was just reading.

_ What new game is...?  _

Greg looked down at his menu before she could meet his eyes, supposing he'd find out before long. Maybe she was planning to knock his head in with a spade, somewhere nobody could hear him. He could be spending Boxing Day at the bottom of a cliff somewhere, drifting dully out to sea. He almost wondered if he should text Sherlock now.  _ Don't make plans over Christmas, mate. M'gonna need you to solve a murder. _

The silence stretched until the waitress appeared with their wine. She filled their glasses for them, chatted to Helen a bit about her dress and where she got it, then took their orders. To Greg's dismay, she took the menus as well. 

As the girl headed off, leaving the two of them alone with each other, he cast his gaze across the other diners in desperate search of distraction. Every glimpse of red hair or glasses in the crowd caught his eye. None of them were the person he wanted them to be.

"How's work been?" Helen asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Greg looked across the table in concern. She'd not asked him how work was in about three years.

"Fine," he said, searching her face. She usually scowled if he even mentioned Scotland Yard. She didn't like him bringing it home, violence and murder. "Busy."

"Yeah?" Helen turned a lock of hair around her finger. "You got lots of cases on?" she asked, tilting her head.

"A few," Greg said, wondering if this was a trap. She didn't seem to be waiting for him to make a mistake, though. She was simply watching him as if interested, wanting him to tell her things. Greg shifted slightly, reaching for his wine. "How's your sister?"

Helen sighed a little, glancing at the tablecloth between them.

"Stressed with Christmas," she murmured. "Nothing new." She picked up her glass as well, lifting it up to her mouth. "Do you want me to buy something for Lisa for you? I saw a pretty scarf she might like."

_ Christ, what... what're you... _

"I've bought for them all already," Greg said, trying to cover his rising unease. "Just got to wrap a few bits."

"Alright." Helen glanced away across the restaurant, idly stroking the stem of her wine glass. "If you want any ideas, I liked the perfume you got me last year. There's a new one out from that brand. Comes in a set, with a body lotion..."

She faded out, drinking. 

"Just a thought," she said. The diamond in her engagement ring flashed as it caught in the candlelight.

Greg found himself more unnerved than if she'd tossed her wine in his face and stormed out. This morning, they'd been screaming at each other over an empty tub of butter put back in the fridge. Greg knew for a fact he hadn't done it; Helen claimed it could only possibly be him. He'd eventually just picked up his coat and walked out, too tired to deal with her bullshit anymore, then spent the day at Lisa's promising her everything was fine. He thought he'd come home to find Helen had cut all his suits into scraps.

Instead she was dolled up to the nines, offering him Christmas present ideas. It was uniquely unsettling.

For a moment or two Greg simply looked at her, panic rising quietly from his stomach.  _ Do you know?  _ he thought.  _ Have you finally found some way to see into my head?  _ He'd laid awake for most of this week, staring at the ceiling as he whirled from one miserable piece of self-hatred to the next. Maybe he'd given something away, some clue as to what was going on in his mind, and Helen had read him like a book. Maybe this was all one beautifully staged guilt trip.  _ Look how reasonable I am,  _ she might be telling him,  _ while you're having thoughts like those. _

But then, Greg didn't really think she'd be sitting here in a restaurant with him, playing games, playing nice, if she knew.

Swallowing around his empty throat, he filled the space with wine.

"What'll happen with your therapy while we're away?" Helen asked, and Greg kept drinking, wishing to god they'd ordered something stronger. "Do you just skip that week?"

"Think so."

"So... that'll be New Year as well, will it? Bank Holiday."

_ Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  _ "Hadn't thought about it."

"Mhm." Helen quietly inspected her nails, painted a soft and pearly pink to match her outfit. "How's that going? Is he looking after you?"

She knew. She'd glimpsed it in Greg's eyes somehow, caught it in his voice. She'd guessed the passcode for his head and seen it all: a full-length mirror in the darkness, a moment worth burning down the world for. They'd not said a single word to each other since goodbye. 

Greg couldn't fucking sleep.

"Seems fine," he said like he wasn't shredding himself to pieces inside, sweating at once across his back. "Seems to know what he's doing."

"What is it you talk about with him?" Helen asked, watching Greg over her glass as she slowly sipped her wine.

_ Everything I'd rather die than say to you.  _

"Work," Greg said. "Family." He shrugged, watching as a large party of people arrived into the restaurant, happy and noisy, all carrying gifts and balloons. "What do you talk about with Ananya?"

Helen took a moment to reply, gazing vaguely towards the birthday party too. 

"Rubbish, really," she said. She seemed to draw a long breath. "It's not doing much for me, though. Not like you."

Greg hesitated, glancing up from his wine. 

"What d'you mean?" he asked, concerned by the dullness in her eyes.

Helen huffed a little, choosing not to look at him. 

"Your Dr Holmes," she murmured. "Your Mycroft." She swirled her wine quietly, then drank. "Seems like every time you see him, you come back a little angrier. A little less... caring."

_ Suddenly you want me to care?  _ Greg thought, saying nothing.  _ Right at the moment I've stopped.  _

"It's fine," Helen went on, brushing her fingers against the side of her own neck. The gentle half-shrug she gave seemed so casual Greg almost believed it. "I'm glad if he's helping you with... whatever it is you want help with. Doesn't seem like he's really fixed our problem though."

Greg took a few seconds to control himself, painfully aware of all the other couples sitting near to them.

"He's a therapist," he muttered. "Not a miracle worker."

Helen's mouth pulled at the corner. "But what's the point of him, if he's not making things better?"

"The only person who could've made things better was—" Greg forced himself to take a breath, then downed the last of his wine. "Let's talk about something else."

She shrugged lightly. 

"If you want," she said. "I just think it's funny how he gets you so upset and makes us fight, that's all. We went to him to sort out our marriage, and yet these days you can barely even look at me."

_ Christ.  _

_ "I _ went to Mycroft to sort out our marriage," Greg said, staring at her.  _ "You _ kicked up a fuss and refused to see him any more."

"Only because he made it so bloody obvious."

"Made what obvious?"

Helen tilted her head, frowning gently. "That he wanted nothing to do with me, Greg. Lost on him. Not his type. Not worth his time and his attention."

Greg bit down into the side of his tongue. "What the hell're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about how he only keeps the clients that he fancies," Helen replied, coolly. Greg's heart seemed to punch through the side of his throat. "It's a little creepy if you ask me," she went on, watching him like a circling hawk. "Gay men often get away with that though, don't they? Everyone thinks they're hilarious and you get tarred as a homophobe if you dare suggest otherwise."

_ Holy fucking hell. _

"Are you serious?" Greg said, all the muscles in his shoulders hardening. "Mycroft doesn't...  _ fancy  _ me, for Christ's sake. It's not like that."

Helen lifted an eyebrow. "No?" she hummed. "Are you sure?"

"You didn't even think he was gay! You said he was staring at your tits!"

"Oh,  _ Greg. _ I never  _ said _ that."

"Jesus—right, you  _ did.  _ You said it after our first session. We were in the car, talking about it, and you said h—"

"See," Helen said, gesturing between them, "this is what I'm trying to tell you. This is what I'm trying to say."

"Can you let me talk for once?"

"Can I let you  _ shout,  _ you mean. At me. In a public place, where everyone can stare."

"I'm not  _ shouting,  _ I'm..." A glance from a nearby table shrank Greg's voice in his throat. His jaw set, leaning closer to Helen. "I'm  _ talking,"  _ he went on, annoyed, "about how you twist your stories after the fact to make me look like a f—"

Helen laughed, looking away with her wine in her hand.

"He's changed you so much," she said. She shook her head, taking a drink. "And you don't even realise," she said. "I don't know how to make you see it."

"See  _ what?" _

"Just... this, Greg. This sudden twenty-four hour rage. Shouting at me in the supermarket, shouting at me in restaurants. On our anniversary. I can't do anything right anymore."

"I've not been able to do anything right since we got married! You've turned me into a bloody slave, Helen! You've made me feel like a—"

Helen inhaled, hard. Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. 

"I should have known," she whispered, almost to herself. Greg stuttered into silence, shocked at the sudden tears. He watched her drink from her wine with a shaking hand. "I hoped you wouldn't be like this tonight. I hoped you'd keep it in check, just for a couple of hours. Spend some time together."

Greg stared at her, his heart now battering against the wall of his chest.

"I wish you'd never taken us to see him," Helen went on, reaching up to press her fingertips beneath her eyes. She was trembling. "He's turned my gentle husband into a bloody monster. And I'm meant to just sit here and take it. I can't do a single thing to stop it."

_ Christ— _

_ Christ, I...  _

_ No, it's... _

The waitress appeared suddenly beside their table, holding starters and greeting them cheerfully. Greg nearly spilled his wine, unsettled by the reminder of what they were here to do.

"There we go," the waitress said, beaming, placing Greg's veal with tuna sauce in front of him. As she laid down Helen's crab salad, she caught sight of the hastily suppressed tears and faltered. "And there you are," she said, dialling down her smile at once. "Enjoy."

She made a swift exit from the table, vanishing off towards the kitchens.

His chest tight, Greg watched as Helen picked up her fork. She valiantly attempted to eat as she trembled.

"It's not like that," Greg tried, his heart pounding in his throat. "It's... look, I didn't mean to..."

Helen ignored him, eating, not daring to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry I shouted," Greg went on. "But we've got problems. Both of us. You wind me up on purpose sometimes, and you know you do."

Helen said nothing. She looked away across the restaurant as she chewed a nervous mouthful of salad, her eyes still glossy with tears.

"You didn't want anything to do with me," Greg said, suddenly shaking too. "You grimaced if I kissed you. Decided I wasn't a proper man anymore."

"You're the one who's moved into the spare room," Helen whispered. Her tears darkened; she reached for a napkin to dry them. "You don't know how much you frighten me sometimes, Greg."

_ Jesus—  _

"Frighten you?" Greg said. It felt like the entire room was suddenly listening. "Hel, what... what're you accusing me of?"

Helen dabbed desperately at her eyes. "And you'd know how to cover it up," she said, her voice a whimper. "They'd never find me. Or you'd pull strings. Make it all go away. Oh, god. I'm so afraid."

"Helen—" Greg's blood had turned to ice. "H-Hel—are you seriously—"

"Excuse me," she gasped, clutching the napkin to her eyes, got up from the table and hurried away towards the bathrooms. Her baby pink dress drew glances from every table she passed. People then looked up, found her crying and grew concerned at once for the lady weeping in public, turning openly to watch her go.

A few gazes found Greg sitting alone at a table with two plates, one hastily abandoned. He tried not to feel the weight of their eyes staring at him, wondering, speculating quietly what on earth he'd just done. He didn't dare to move. He didn't want to just sit here and eat, drink his wine like some bastard who couldn't give a shit if his wife had run off in tears. He couldn't follow her and try to talk; someone would probably intervene and drag him out. He'd be in cuffs in the back of a van within the hour.

_ God, what—what do I— _

With the rising sense of powerlessness came a thought. It prickled at the back of Greg's heart, so quiet he could barely feel it, just loud enough for him to listen.

She'd screamed herself hoarse at him this morning. She'd called him every name under the sun, all over a tub of butter. He'd finally left when he started to understand that she'd happily scream for the rest of the day, that there was nothing he could ever do to win this fight. He knew it hadn't been him who put it back. He knew it like he knew his own name. But once  _ 'I've not used any butter for days'  _ had been rejected, he had no ammo. He had nothing. The only options left were to doubt his own sanity or leave.

He had nothing now, either—and it was a perfect set of circumstances.

Nobody in this place would believe him over Helen. Not for a second.  _ She lies,  _ he could tell them on his knees. _ She changes her story. I've not seen her cry since she wanted me to raise another bloke's baby. This is fun for her.  _ They wouldn't hear a word of it. An entire restaurant was now stealing glances at him, presuming him to be a monster of some kind—and unless he went out of his way to be soft-voiced and kind, doing everything she wanted without complaint, he'd play right into her story.

The stage was so perfectly constructed that he almost hadn't seen it for a stage. She'd given him two parts to pick from, abusive bastard or obedient doormat, and she'd arranged a watching audience too.

_ I'm not a monster,  _ he told himself, shaking.  _ I'm not dangerous. I'm not bullying her. I'm just... Jesus, I... _

He reached for his wine. He drained it, his eyes shut, trying to wash down the nausea now burning up his throat.

_ I can't do this,  _ he thought.  _ I can't live like this. _

_ I want to go. I need to go. I just need to go. _

He put his glass down, shaking, left his food untouched and got up from the table. People openly stared at him as he passed. He dragged his wallet from inside his jacket and fumbled through it for money as he walked, keeping his eyes down, telling himself just to breathe. 

He had the notes in his hand by the time he reached the maître d'. 

"Excuse me," he said, interrupting the couple who were speaking to him. They faltered at once, appalled. "Sorry. I'm really sorry. For the table near the back—my wife—she's in a pink dress. That's more than enough. Give her the change for her taxi."

He bundled the money into the shocked man's hands, turned away and strode out through the doors before anyone could stop him. A voice called him back, a disapproving, "Sir—!" He kept going.

Several streets away, he stopped outside an off licence to find his bloody phone. He keyed the code in with trembling fingers, fresh pain blistering in the wounds, and opened his contacts before he knew what he was doing. 

_ I'm falling apart,  _ he thought, pressing the phone to his ear.  _ I'm fucking falling apart. You said you'd be there. _

It rang as Greg panted in the silence, shaking, reaching up to crush the tears out of his eyes.

_ Why don't I get to cry in restaurants? Why don't I get believed?  _

_ I don't want to be a monster. _

The click of the connecting tone stopped his heart. He inhaled, desperate; there came a cautious breath along the line.

"Greg?" came the voice, and that was it. It was over, all of it. Greg sank to his knees against the off licence window, gripping a hand across his eyes so he could cry. "Are you alright?"

Greg's throat contorted. He bit back his sob, hot tears flowing in an instant.

"S-Sorry," he gasped. "Sorry, I... I-I'm not okay. I need you. I'm not okay."

Mycroft seemed to hesitate. "Are you somewhere we can talk?" he said.

"No," Greg said, shaking. "No, I'm just... I-I just walked out, I couldn't—oh,  _ shit— _ I'm crying outside some off licence in Soho. Can I meet you somewhere?"

Again, Mycroft hesitated. When he spoke, he didn't sound quite right.

"Are you able to get to the clinic?" he asked. 

It wouldn't be more than a few minutes in a taxi. If he couldn't find a taxi, he would walk.

"Y-Yeah," Greg said, trying to dry his eyes on his cuff. "Yeah, I... I can get there. Will you be there?"

"Yes, I'll be there." Mycroft seemed to take a moment, drawing in a breath. "We'll meet there and we'll talk, Greg. If you get to the clinic before me, don't worry. Just wait outside and I'll be with you soon."

"M'sorry. M'sorry if you're—"

"It's quite alright. Would you like me to stay on the phone with you?"

_ Not like this. Not when I can't see you. _

"I-I'll be okay," Greg managed, straightening up from the ground. He pushed his hands across his face. "I'll be alright for a few minutes. I just... I-I really need to..."

"I understand," Mycroft said. A set of keys jangled in the background; there came the quiet slam of a door. "I'm on my way, Greg. Everything will be alright."


	20. Goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My enormous gratitude goes to Mice and Arbie for their supportive and insightful comments on these last two chapters. I'd also like to thank everyone who's followed this story as a WIP - you guys are heroes. x

The taxi rocked gently as it turned onto York Street. If Mycroft felt unprepared for this situation, it was because it was utterly true: he was not prepared in any way. He'd had four sleepless nights to haul his thoughts under some kind of control, and not managed it. He'd been fooling himself that by Wednesday evening he'd have everything in order. Words would have come easily; calm and professional explanations would have been given. This whole business would have been managed as smoothly and cleanly as possible. Though he'd never have welcomed this moment, he'd hoped to limp away from it with some semblance of his dignity.

Circumstances had now delivered their ruling against him. Not only must he fall, but fall in flames.

He deserved nothing less.

This taxi was taking him to the door of the clinic as the cart took a prisoner to the scaffold. He'd thought briefly of dressing as he would for any other appointment, putting on at least a waistcoat or a jacket, but it seemed only fitting to be dragged here in rags. He'd wrenched an old jumper from the wardrobe and pulled it on over his crumpled weekend shirt. Five minutes down the road, he'd realised the unconscious reasoning behind his choice of dark red. _At least the blood will not show,_ he'd thought, aching. It would explain why he'd stripped himself of his possessions, too. His pockets contained keys, his wallet, his mobile phone and nothing else, not even his spectacles. He'd never felt so exposed and incapable in his life.

_Better, perhaps._

Mycroft's throat gripped, glancing through the windshield to see a distant figure waiting outside the clinic. 

_Better for you to finally see me as I am. Ordinary, weak. Better for your healing. To look back in contempt._

The taxi drew to an uneasy stop. Cherishing his final moments of composure, Mycroft politely thanked the driver, paid him with a tip and declined the offer of a return journey. He wasn't sure how long he would be. With his heart in the back of his mouth, he then exited the car and swung the door shut behind him, its muffled clunk heralding the beginning of the end. As Mycroft fumbled his change into the zipped section of his wallet, the car pulled away into the night. It left him to his fate.

He turned around to find Greg standing on the pavement, waiting for him there beside the door.

_God help me._

Greg had clearly been somewhere to dinner, somewhere a reservation was required. That midnight blue shirt and black suit were not ordinary attire. With a lurch Mycroft recalled that it was Sunday, and that anniversary plans of some kind had been in motion. It looked as if those plans had now been aborted.

As Mycroft crossed the road towards him, Greg visibly swallowed back tears.

"I'm sorry," he said, the very moment Mycroft was in earshot. "I'm really sorry. You're... J-Jesus, look at you. I dragged you out here and you were at home. I'm so sorry."

Forcing down the lump in his throat, Mycroft reminded himself these next few minutes were how he would be remembered. He could not hope for fondness; he couldn't hope for warmth. The only thing he had left was professional.

"It's not a problem," he said, retrieving his keys from his pocket, and swiftly unlocked the door of the clinic. He input his code without looking. "Let's get inside where we can talk."

Greg followed him up the staircase in silence, as quiet and nervous as a stray cat brought in for food. Mycroft flicked light switches as he passed them through habit, and almost booted up Anthea's computer before recalling she would not be here for another twelve hours. He proceeded instead along the corridor, painfully aware of Greg's increasingly anxious silence from behind him, and opened up the door.

It held it open for Greg to go inside, drawing a breath.

"There," he said. "We're unlikely to be disturbed, but..."

Greg nodded numbly, stepping through into the darkness without a word. Mycroft snapped on the light. His office blinked into being around them, perfectly laid out in preparation for tomorrow morning's clients. The cups were washed, the kettle empty, the surfaces tidy and swept. The sight of it all brought Mycroft a small flush of comfort, reassured that at least something about this situation would be as it should.

He closed the door, trying to decide if he should offer a hot drink—if the gesture towards normality would one day be looked back on as kind or cruel. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Sustaining such a pretense would take more strength and composure than he had at his disposal.

He moved instead towards his desk, longing for the comfort of solid wood and a plaque with his name on it. 

"Take a seat," he offered, as he gathered two stray sheets of paper. He returned them both to his in-tray. "I'm listening."

Greg didn't sit down. He stayed standing near the centre of the room, wet his lips, and took several long seconds to speak.

"We were out," he said at last, numb. "Anniversary. She... s-she, erm..." 

He drew a long and shaking breath.

"She set up a whole thing," he said in a rush. "Tears. The works. She's the victim now. I'm abusive. Pulling myself away from her. But it's not even about that."

Mycroft said nothing, watching in silence from behind his desk.

"It's not about that," Greg said again, placing both hands over his face, then pushed them up into his hair. "God, it's... it _is,_ but it's... I-I don't care if she wants to paint me as a monster. I don't care if I _am_ a monster. I just want to be away from her. I can't cope. I can't cope with the games. I can't cope with this feeling like my life's entertainment and she'll build it up or break it down whenever she wants."

He exhaled, hard, starting to pace.

"She says I'm angry all the time now," he said. "And she's right. I _am_ angry. I want to scream my fucking throat out. I've wasted years of my life trying to be the good guy, the nice guy, do the decent thing and all it's ever got me is— _f-fuck._ This is my _life._ This is my _actual fucking life."_

Mycroft laid his hands flat against his desk, reached into the depths of his professional training for the right thing to say in this moment—the stock words of comfort and reassurance to offer.

"And I don't even care," Greg burst out, gasping it. His eyes flashed with furious, exhausted tears in an instant. "That's the worst part. I don't _care._ She kicks off now and I just walk out. She sat there crying about how she thinks I'm planning to kill her and I just... _didn't care._ I just left. She'll come out of the bathroom to find I've just gone."

He turned to gaze at Mycroft across the office, broken, his eyes dark with misery and his shoulders shaking.

"I came here to solve things," he said, almost panting. "I wanted you to fix me. I walked in that door with a wife and a nice house and a decent life, and now I'm standing here—f-fucking _queer_. Wanting a fucking _divorce._ Crying all the time. Storming out of every room I walk into. I haven't fucking slept. I wanted you _to fix me."_

Mycroft's stomach convulsed with guilt, his every muscle gripping tight.

"Greg," he tried, his voice breaking. "G-Greg, I... the process of therapy—"

 _"I'm not meant to be in love with you!"_ Greg howled. 

Mycroft shut his eyes at once. It ripped through his soul like acid, burning and bleaching, crippling his systems to a standstill.

"I can't _sleep!"_ Greg sobbed, raging. "I can't _cope!_ I don't want to think about anything but you! I don't want to talk to anybody but you! I don't want to go anywhere you won't be! What am I meant to fucking _do?"_

Mycroft placed his head into his hands in silence, covering his eyes so he could weep.

"I came here so you could tell us to communicate better," Greg raged at him, distraught. "Now my life's a car wreck. I'm queer and I've got a wife who tortures me for sport. I only married her because it turns out I'm a doormat—because my parents would probably've sold me to a fucking circus if they got the chance—and it turns out I lost Tom because I'm a coward, and self-loathing and pathetic, and my entire bloody life is just good money after bad—"

"Greg—"

"Then I walk through your door and suddenly I'm on top of the fucking world. Suddenly I'm standing here saying sure, I'll get divorced—sure, I'll go travel—sure, I'll just shrug and tell the world that I'm queer—"

_"Greg—"_

_"I need you to fix me!"_ Greg screamed, as Mycroft curled his fingers into his hair in utter misery. The entire office rang with Greg's voice. "I need you to put it back, or put it forwards, or just change something—fix something— _do something. Please."_

The silence echoed. Mycroft released his hands from his hair, filling his lungs with a sharp breath to shout back.

As he lifted his head from his hands, he saw Greg drop.

Mycroft left his chair in an instant. He crossed the room before he'd felt himself move, knelt down without a thought and gathered Greg from the floor into his arms. Greg clung to him, sobbing. He dug his fingers into the back of Mycroft's jumper, curling into Mycroft's chest, shaking with such force he was hard to grip. Wrapping around him, Mycroft drove both hands through his hair and held on, burning alive with the force of love, wishing to god he could draw out the pain like water through roots, take it all away, make it end.

Greg convulsed in his arms, struggling to breathe.

Tears stung in Mycroft's eyes. In the knot of grasping arms they had formed, their cheeks had come to be pressed together.

Breaking, dying, Mycroft left himself nuzzle. _Once,_ he thought. _Once, before I..._

It hurt to speak.

"I have to transfer you to Ananya," he whispered. 

"N-No." Greg held onto him tighter, so hard Mycroft's ribs threatened to buckle. Mycroft realised in a rush he'd let them break. He'd let Greg crush them like dry twigs if he needed to. "No. Please don't."

"I have to, Greg. I... I can't—"

_God help me._

"I can't trust myself," Mycroft said, shaking. "I can't suppress my feelings for you. I can't pretend not to see them any longer." 

Greg convulsed against him in silence. He was padding at the back of Mycroft's jumper, trying to calm them both.

Mycroft stroked through his hair, hot tears winding slowly between their cheeks.

"Ananya will take better care of you," he whispered. "Far better than I could. She'll look after you properly."

"But I want you. P-Please. I need you."

"Greg, I've _failed_ you. Utterly. I've torn apart your life."

"I want that," Greg breathed, shaking. "I need that. Tear it up. Please. Give me a new one. I want to be fixed."

Mycroft's heart clenched. He shut his eyes, stroking his cheek against Greg's.

"You don't need to be fixed," he murmured. "You never needed to be fixed, Greg. Simply set free."

"Then set me free. Please. Please don't let me go."

Mycroft inhaled slowly, breathing Greg's scent into his heart. He couldn't bear to speak the words at any volume. Even now, after all his sins, this felt like the one which would condemn him.

"Check her phone," he whispered in Greg's ear. 

Greg didn't move, listening as if he needed the words to live. 

"I can't be your therapist any longer," Mycroft said, shaking. "I've already violated my ethics enough. I had a duty of care and I've torn them to shreds. And I... I care too deeply for you, Greg, to stomach the thought of abusing you in that way."

"You're not _abusing_ me," Greg said in a rush, cradling the back of Mycroft's head. "Christ, you... y-you make me feel like I'm alive. You don't understand how close I want to be."

Mycroft's heart began to pound against his chest, struggling to fight its way free. With the slightest tilt of his head, he could place his lips on Greg's and claim him, comfort him, take him away from this place. He could show Greg he understood entirely how close they both wanted to be.

 _A married man,_ he thought, reeling. _A married patient._

He closed his eyes, shifting to rest his cheek against Greg's shoulder. 

"Ananya will take excellent care of you," he mumbled. Greg's fingers stroked through the back of his hair, holding him there as if he were precious. "She'll give you every support you need. Deserve."

Greg audibly swallowed, shaking.

"I want to see you," he whispered. Mycroft's heart heaved at its bonds. "Please. I'm serious. If not as my therapist, then..." He let out a shuddering breath. "I-I need to see you," he finished, pressing a silent kiss to the side of Mycroft's neck. 

Mycroft's very soul seemed to writhe, screaming at him to sit up just a little, take the man's face into his hands, kiss him until he realised how perfectly happy he deserved to be.

"Greg," he said, overwhelmed. Greg's fingers stroked through his hair, petting, easing it into disarray. "Greg, I... e-even former patients..."

"Is it illegal?"

 _God forgive me._ "No. No, it isn't written into law. But I wish to treat my ethics as if they were."

"Would you lose your job?"

"The situation is... _extremely_ complicated. Extremely grey. Some professional bodies rule it out entirely. Some suggest a cooling period of three years, and even then only under extraordinary circumstances. All of them treat it with the utmost seriousness."

Greg seemed to draw a steadying breath; his chest expanded in Mycroft's arms. "What's yours say?" he asked.

Mycroft kept his eyes closed. 

"It is left to my discretion," he mumbled.

"And what's your discretion say?" Greg said.

There was only one answer Mycroft could give. "I do not know," he whispered. "I... I never thought I would need to decide."

"Has this never happened before?" Greg asked, quietly.

Faint revulsion coiled through Mycroft's stomach at the thought. "No," he murmured. "Nowhere even close."

As Greg's arms tightened gently all around him, he felt his heart try to stretch up to reach them.

"Greg," he breathed, warning. Greg shifted gently, stroking the tip of his nose along Mycroft's jaw. "Greg, I... I need time."

"I need you—"

"You _believe_ you need me," Mycroft corrected him, trembling. "Any decent therapist will tell you it's transference. I created you a space in which to examine your past emotions. You've transferred your feelings towards some previous person in your life onto me."

"Who?" Greg murmured, his lips warm against Mycroft's cheek. "I just see you."

"As I am an inadequate therapist, I have not helped you to understand. And in my idiocy, I have now developed counter-transference. I recognise someone from my own past in you. That is all."

"Yeah?" Greg rumbled, soft. "Who is it?"

 _Oh, god._ "I do not know," Mycroft said, "but as I too am now in weekly therapy with Ananya, I have every faith she'll soon help me to identify—"

Greg's mouth brushed against his jaw, a soft and coaxing kiss.

"—Greg," Mycroft whispered, shaking. "Greg, I... n-not in my office. Not until..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Greg paused, hearing the words nonetheless. 

"What d'you mean, check her phone?" he asked.

"I do not recall giving you that advice," Mycroft said, attempting to convey with his tone that the subject was now concluded. "Nor will I recall you coming here to see me this evening. Unfortunate, that the change in my schedule means I can no longer treat you. Dr Sahasrabuddhe will take wonderful care of you when you start appointments with her after Christmas."

Greg processed this in silence for some time, mercifully contesting none of it.

"When will I see you?" he asked.

Mycroft's pulse went spinning once more into orbit. He waited to speak until he trusted himself to do so, after several silent calming breaths.

"When I have had time to think," he murmured, "and when I believe it is appropriate for us to do so."

It wasn't the answer that Greg wanted. 

He took it all the same. 

He hugged Mycroft slowly, gently, his vice-like grip grown soft and full of care. The tip of his nose brushed against Mycroft's cheek one last time, but not his lips.

"Can I text you?" he asked.

Mycroft's heart squeezed. "Yes," he murmured, "but please don't use it to hurry me. Please don't ask me things I cannot answer."

"Alright." Greg inhaled; his chest expanded slowly in Mycroft's arms. "Will I be okay? When I check it, I mean."

Mycroft began to form his answer, painfully and nervously shaping it to fit.

"Don't cherry-pick," Greg said, and it was somehow enough to make Mycroft laugh. Greg huffed too, squeezing him again, and rumbled in his ear. "I won't be, will I? Tell me straight."

"Not at first," Mycroft confessed. He closed his eyes, curling his fingers in the back of Greg's hair. "But eventually, yes. More than okay."

Gently they drew back to look at each other, nervous glances which tangled and then held. _Dear Christ,_ Mycroft thought, overwhelmed by the sight of him, _but you are wonderful. You are extraordinary. You are perfect._

Bracing himself, he took Greg's jaw with care into his hands.

"Anger points the way," he said, looking into Greg's eyes. "It is a map. It shows what you feel that you lack, and how fiercely you want it for yourself. Your anger deserves your respect."

Greg listened, lost, gazing back at him in reverence.

Mycroft gave him a gentle smile. "And the right person will always think that you're good enough."

A silent, nervous shine glazed the surface of Greg's eyes. He swallowed it away, his throat muscles working under Mycroft's fingertips. 

"Don't leave me for too long," he breathed. His gaze flickered down to Mycroft's lips; distress shivered across his face. "Don't make it any worse than it has to be. Please."

Mycroft's heart tightened.

"It won't be a moment longer than it must," he said. He hesitated, glancing at Greg's mouth. "You are very, very special."

Greg swallowed again without a sound. He reached up, took one of Mycroft's hands from his jaw and gathered it to his lips, pressing a single shaking kiss to Mycroft's fingertips.

"So are you," he said, and Mycroft's heart slipped up into his mouth. "I'm going to go. There's stuff I want to say, but I know it won't change anything to say it. So I'll head off, and... and we'll talk some time."

_God help me. You perfect, perfect man._

"Yes," Mycroft managed, shivering. "Yes, I believe that's best for now."

*

They said goodbye at the door.

Greg insisted Mycroft take the first taxi. 

"It's alright," he said, settled enough now even to smile, standing by the open car door. "I've got to ring Lisa first, see if she can take me in for the night. Plus it's freezing and you've not got a coat."

Mycroft's chest flushed at the consideration, hardly daring to meet his gentle gaze.

"You're very kind, Greg," he said, buckling himself in. "I hope you're not waiting long."

"I'll be fine. Honestly." Greg drew a deep breath, quietly gripping the top of the door. "Have a good Christmas," he said, brave, "and a good new year. And I'll see you soon."

_Oh, god. Come with me. Don't call your sister. Let me take you in._

"Very soon," Mycroft promised, even knowing he might not keep it. He still wanted to make it. He hesitated, gazing up into Greg's eyes, and wished with all his heart they'd kissed, just once. "Goodnight, Greg."

Greg's eyes renewed their nervous shine, soft and full of hope in the darkness.

"Night," he said, and he pushed shut the door.

Mycroft watched him in the wing mirror all the way along the street. As the taxi finally turned the corner, the distant figure outside the clinic raised a hand—waving, reaching. Mycroft's hand lifted from his lap in instinct. His fingers shook, held out towards the mirror.

As Greg disappeared from sight, the world all around him grew quiet.

Alone in the backseat of the taxi, Mycroft gazed at the glass where Greg had been. His breaths drew themselves, overwhelmed, barely conscious of his own ghost-like reflection in the window.

He had a feeling that something had just ended.

He found his own wrist in his lap, gripping it gently, and reminded himself of the critical advantage to endings.

They meant something new could begin.

*

**Monday 16th December**

There was still no sign of him the next morning. The car was still sitting in the drive, so he'd not been back to collect it. 

_Good,_ Helen decided at the bedroom window, and stripped her nightie over her head with a smile. No doubt he was sulking on his ugly sister's ugly sofa, surrounded by all her ugly kids. If the fates were kind, he'd stay there and sulk for at least a few days, and it meant there'd be a chance to have company over. She missed cock.

He'd be back before long, of course—crawling in on his knees, saying he was sorry he'd stormed out, telling her he'd been working too hard—and she would decide what to do with him then. There were some other nice things she had her eye on for Christmas. He always loosened his iron grip on the precious wallet when he was feeling guilty. If she made him cry hard enough, she might even get a last minute holiday somewhere, a bit of sun to help her through the bloody winter. She'd always hated winter. Everyone looked miserable and old.

For now, it seemed as if she'd at least have some peace for the day. She hoped he was looking forward to carrying his things back inside, one by one, from where she planned to dump them in the garden. The neighbours were all clearly as bored as she was. God knew they could do with a laugh.

She got the shower running, chose a celebratory body scrub, then took the time to tidy her bikini area while her body lotion dried. It was a tedious job, but it did make a difference. There was something a little magical about making Greg pay for wax strips that someone else got to appreciate—then, if he hadn't turned into such a whimpering old man, maybe he'd get to appreciate them too.

Humming, with her hair gathered up into a towel, Helen squeaked open the bathroom door and breezed out to get her phone.

At the sight of someone waiting for her, she jumped and clutched for her throat.

"Oh! Oh, you... _scared_ me!" she gasped, staring at him wide-eyed. He was still wearing his suit from last night, sitting on the edge of their bed with his eyes trained on the bathroom doorway. He was wearing the weirdest expression she'd ever seen on him, something like a smirk but too intense, his jaw too tight, his gaze too calm. 

Flushing, Helen grabbed for a towel to cover herself. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" she snapped. "Just sitting there. Stop staring at me. I didn't hear you come in."

Greg huffed, sliding something around his mouth. 

"Good," he said, and held up a hand.

As Helen recognised her phone, the screen unlocked and her messages open, her heart lurched into her throat. She said nothing, pulling her towel tighter; she searched his dark-eyed stare.

He waited for her to speak, one eyebrow slightly lighted.

"Well?" he said.

Helen flushed furiously. "Well, what?"

He huffed again, his eyes tightening at the edges. 

"Seriously?" he said, and the flash of black amusement made her stomach clench. "That's how you're going to play this? Oblivious? You're actually going to stand there, blinking innocently at me, hoping I got as far as opening your messages but didn't bother reading them."

Helen swiped her tongue between her lips, inhaling. _Shit._

"Do you want to try again?" Greg said. His stare could drill through granite. "Try like you mean it, maybe. Try like you don't want to get divorced."

_Oh, Christ._

Looking him in the eye, Helen summoned up the first flush of tears. 

"You promised me," she breathed. "You promised me you wouldn't work late anymore. You told me things would be different."

He let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Christ."

"I told you," Helen said, raising her voice. "I _told_ you I get lonely. I told you I n—"

"Then get a _hobby,"_ he shouted over her, his eyes flashing with fury, "not a _dick."_

"Don't you dare laugh at me! Don't you dare sit there and—"

"I'll laugh as much as I fucking want, Helen. What else is there for me to do at this stage? You begged me for another chance. You swore to me on your life this wouldn't happen again, but here the fuck we are. Jesus, no wonder you weren't fussed about sex any more."

"Well, maybe if you'd paid attention to my _needs,_ Greg, instead of bloody work for once, I wouldn't have—"

"Are you actually fucking serious?" he demanded, shouting over her. "How many times did I try? Why d'you think I took us to a sex therapist, Hel? To meet new people?"

Helen breathed in. This wasn't working; she'd have to change tack.

"Well," she said furiously, backing away as he stood up from the bed, "what did you think would happen, with you treating me like a fucking dog all the time? Are you really that surprised I turned to a friend?"

He held up her phone.

"A friend?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "This is you crying on someone's shoulder, is it? Exactly how many times did you miss and cry all over his cock?"

As she drew breath to respond, he cut across her.

"No," he said. "Stop. Quit. Just stand there and stop trying, because this is fucking excruciating." 

He showed her the screen. Helen stared at it, pale.

"This is not a friend," he snarled. "This is not a lover. You've got him thinking that for now, and maybe you even believe it yourself. But sooner or later, he'll be just another corpse you've left on the road. Some other poor bastard you've had the guts out of, half-eaten, then dumped."

He locked her phone without a glance and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on the bed behind him with a flump.

"You're a bitch," he told her blankly. Helen's mouth opened. "And you're pathetic and you're broken. You need help, but it's not my job to help you. You wasted years of my life. A life I deserve. A life I want to live. You're not wasting another minute of it. At least if you're pregnant this time, I know for certain it's not mine."

He turned away.

Helen watched him, pale and open-mouthed, as he strode towards the stairs.

"We're getting a divorce," he said, picked up a bulging hold-all by the bedroom door, and slung it over his shoulder. "We're getting a quick divorce. Find a fucking lawyer."

His eyes flashed.

"Don't come near me again," he said.

Without another word, he walked away.

*

Tears came as he laid eyes on the door. Pain had held him together all this way, every passing mile in the taxi, stronger and prouder and calmer than he'd ever been in his life. Pain was a friend; it needed him. It was his pain and he'd carried it from the wreckage in his arms, all he had anymore. He'd brought it here, where it would be safe.

At the sight of the door, it was relief that broke him apart.

He got out of the car, shaking at last, helpless not to cry. The door opened wide for him. Sanctuary appeared, arms held out and crying too. Relief left no survivors. They'd both been waiting far too long.

Greg didn't mean to run. He'd wanted to walk these last few steps, proud and upright, and say, _don't worry. It doesn't matter. I'm alright._

In the end, he collapsed into her arms.

Lisa's fingers drove through his hair, gripping him, gathering him down.

"I've got you," she sobbed, pushing her cheek against his. Greg curled into her hug like a child, unsure if he was even standing anymore. He couldn't feel a thing. It was over. "You'll be okay," Lisa said, raking her fingers through his hair. "You'll be alright. You can stay as long as you need. You won't be alone, not for one minute. Not this time. I promise."

 _It hurts,_ he thought. _It hurts. It hurts._

His sister's arms tightened.

"I know," she whispered. "It hurts because it needs to. You'll see. This is how it all gets better." She pressed a fierce kiss to the crown of Greg's head, rocking him as he wept. "I'm so _bloody proud of you."_

**The End**


End file.
